


Some Enchanted Evening (part one)

by Sue Kelley (sknkodiak)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Attempted Murder, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 09:40:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sknkodiak/pseuds/Sue%20Kelley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After one of his students is murdered, Blair goes undercover in an escort agency to find out what happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written about 1999-2000. It is also archived at Seventh Dimension; I'm putting it here as well because I'm trying to get all of my stories in one place. So if you were hoping for a brand new story, I'm sorry!
> 
> Takes place in aired season three. Originally printed  
> in _Sentry Post 4_.
> 
> **Notes:** Many thanks to betas Wendy Myers, Dawn Cunninghan, and  
>  to Sandra and Judy for all their help and feedback. PG for Language, Mild  
> spoilers for season three eps, and Cassie Welles is depicted as not having  
> a brain.

Some Enchanted Evening  
Part One  


Prologue

"You wanted to see me, Mr. Sandburg?"

Blair Sandburg looked up from the pile of papers on his desk to see a young woman hesitating in the doorway of his office. "Cami! Yes, please, come in." He sprang up from his chair to clear a seat for the slender blonde. 

Cami Hughes didn't say anything as she sank into the offered chair, her pile of books and notebooks clutched to her chest like a shield. Blair inwardly shook his head as he perched on the desk in front of her, waiting patiently until emerald-green eyes hesitantly met his deep blue ones, then swung away again. 

"Is this about my term paper?" the young woman asked hesitantly.

Blair waited until she looked at him again, then he took a binder from the stack on the corner of the desk and offered it to her. Cami hesitated, then, shifting the books in her arms to free up a hand, she took it from him, flipping it open to the first page. 

"D," she said flatly, reading the grade scrawled in red pen. She let the binder fall to the floor. After a moment, she went on, her voice unsteady, "I'm not going to pass the course, am I?" 

Blair slowly shook his head. "I don't see how," he said reluctantly. "Even if you get a perfect score on the final.... Cami, your work has fallen apart the last month. Not just in my class, but in all of them. You're an A student not even doing passing work." He paused. "I know how hard it has been, losing your... friend, but Marc wouldn't have wanted you to--" 

"You don't know shit about what Marc would have wanted!" the girl exploded, erupting from her chair, books and notebooks flying everywhere. He obscenity startled Blair as much as the rage and hatred that distorted her beautiful face. "You and your cop friend killed him!" 

Blair closed his eyes. "Cami, Marc fled from pursuit and rolled his car over an embankment." The graduate student's words were flat as he tried not to remember the horror of that afternoon. "I swear to you, Jim did everything possible to get him out of the car--but the gas tank had ruptured..." 

The girl's shoulder heaved with the force of her emotion. "Your friend chased him because he thought he'd killed his aunt. He didn't! I know... I knew him! He loved that old lady, he wouldn't have killed her. He *couldn't*!" 

"Jim just wanted to question him," Blair argued. "If he wasn't guilty, Cami, why did he run?" 

"He was scared! Can't you understand that?" The girl turned blindly, knocking a stack of papers to the floor. "Oh, it's no use, you've got your mind made up just like the cops did. If they really wanted to find out who killed Angela McBerry, why didn't they look into that escort agency? That guy... Tony... he was the last person to see her, why didn't anyone think he killed her?" 

"Well, there was the question of motive," Blair pointed out, making his voice very calm. "Marc McBerry inherited his aunt's entire fortune--"

"What was left of it! Where did all the money go, Mr. Sandburg? Did your police friends ever ask that?" 

"I'm sure they did. Cami, witnesses saw Marc's car parked in front of the house that night... the police found jewelry his aunt had reported stolen in his room after... after he was killed." 

"I don't care!" the girl screamed, backing toward the door, her face shredded by emotion. "It's because Judith Elliott is a Bolt! That's why no one has looked too closely at that 'escort agency' of hers. Marc didn't kill his aunt, and the police killed an innocent man!" She threw open the door and stumbled out, shoving past several students who were standing in the hall, mouths agape. 

**** **** ****

Blair didn't tell Jim what had happened with Cami. He thought about it, but he knew Ellison was feeling badly enough that he hadn't been able to get Marc McBerry out of his car before it exploded. Instead, over the next two days he quietly began to research the murder of wealthy Angela McBerry. Technically the case was still open, but in actuality the police department was satisfied that her nephew Marc McBerry had strangled the elderly women, possibly when she walked in to find him stealing from her. The woman had reported several pieces of jewelry and objects d' art missing in the six months prior to her death. 

Blair quickly found out what Cami had been talking about: over the same six months period there had been large amounts of money vanishing from the McBerry estate. A team of auditors was working on it, but, again, the theory was that somehow Marc McBerry had been embezzling from his aunt. How a twenty year old college student with little business knowledge and no involvement in the actual handling of the money had been doing this, no one knew. 

It was finals week and Blair didn't have much free time. He knew he'd have to have evidence, more than just the ravings of a grief-stricken girl, before he could get his roommate and partner, Detective Jim Ellison of the Cascade Major Crimes division, to listen to him. Still, as he piled his materials together wearily, after another night with no sleep, he decided he'd tell Jim his concerns over the weekend. Today was the last final he had to give, and after a good night's sleep he'd be prepared to deal with Jim. 

The students staggered into the lecture hall in groups, most of them having that hollow-eyed look college freshman and sophomores get toward the end of finals week. Blair kept a sharp lookout for Cami Hughes, hoping she'd at least make the attempt to take the final, but he never saw her come in. 

The test period was two hours. As usual, Teressa Vicenzano finished first, laying her test booklet face down on Blair's desk fifty-five minutes after she'd started the test. She gave Blair a smile, mouthed "Have a nice summer" and slipped from the room quietly. Still, several other students looked up and glared at her back. Blair concealed a smile. Teressa was one of those students who whipped through a test and then left without ever checking it again. It had bothered Blair at first, but Teressa had never scored less than a B-plus all semester. 

The door squeaked open again and he turned, wondering if Teressa had forgotten something, and was surprised to see his roommate standing there.

Blair's heart jumped. Jim would never come to the University during finals week unless there was something very wrong. Glancing over the rows of students bent over their tests, he went to the door. "Jim, man, what's going on?" 

"Sandburg, step out in the hall, just for a minute, okay?"

Frowning, Blair followed the police detective down the hall several feet. "Okay, man, what's up?" 

Jim Ellison took a deep breath. He fumbled something out of his pocket. Frowning, Blair saw that it was a clear evidence bag with an envelope sealed inside. The envelope was stained brownish-red, but he could make out his name written across it in shaken capitals. "What--" he started, reaching for the bag. 

"I got a call, right after you left this morning," Jim said gently. "A young woman found stabbed to death in the park. We found this on her person." 

Blair stared at Jim, waiting. His friend licked his lips and said, quietly, "Blair, it was Cami Hughes." 

Three Weeks Later: 

Jim Ellison was not a happy camper.

Or a happy detective, or a happy Sentinel. Jim Ellison was not happy, period. 

In addition to being Jim's boss and one of only a few people that knew of his sentinel senses, Simon Banks considered himself Jim's friend. It was for that reason that he had tolerated the absolutely foul mood the other man had been in all week. 

Truth be told, Simon wasn't really happy with the situation, either. Blair Sandburg was *not* a cop, damn it! He was Jim's Guide, which made him by necessity, Jim's partner, a job he performed brilliantly. But he was also a trouble magnet and Simon had lost count of the times that Jim, or another member of Major Crimes, had hauled their long-haired anthropologist out of danger. 

It wasn't that Sandburg had never gone undercover before; he had. Simon didn't like the idea (in addition to liking the kid and worrying about him, he didn't relish having to explain to the commissioner and the mayor how a *police observer* got into such dangerous situations). Usually however, Sandburg had already convinced Ellison it was an okay idea. A few times it had been Ellison's idea. And the backup was there, in place, men they could trust, men who *knew* Sandburg wasn't a cop and didn't expect him to be able to get out of situations by himself. 

Simon disapproved of the current situation, and Jim of course was furious about it. Which was why Blair had not bothered to discuss it with either of them before he'd volunteered his services to Denise Kalp, special liaison to the Mayor's office. By the time his partner clued in what was going on, Blair was already committed, and all of Jim's protests, be they carefully reasoned and calmly spoken, or--as was more likely--delivered at the top of his lungs, made no difference. 

Jim stomped into Simon's office and threw himself down in the chair in front of the desk, glaring into space and clenching his jaw so tightly that Simon kept expecting the bone to erupt through the skin. Sighing, the black man poured his best detective a cup of coffee and handed it to him. Jim accepted it silently, glowering. 

"Jim," Simon sighed. "What's done is done and you might as well stop fuming about it. The kid was determined to do this, and what's really bothering you is that the made the decision without your input." 

Jim transferred his icy blue glare to his commanding officer. "What is *bothering* me," he ground out between tightly clenched teeth, "is that Sandburg is not a cop. That used to bother you, too. Sir," he added sarcastically. 

Simon ignored the sarcasm. "Look, Jim, I'm not thrilled with this situation, either. But nothing changes the fact that Blair accomplished something no cop could have: he got on the inside of Judith Elliott's business. And he *did* volunteer for this. No one put pressure on him." 

"That letter pressured him! He feels responsible for Cami Hughes's death."

And you feel responsible for Marc McBerry's!" Simon fired back. "Jim, we've got a murderer out there in the streets of this city! Two people are dead, three, if you count the McBerry kid. And the only lead we have is that escort service!" 

"We should go in there with a warrant and confiscate Judith Elliott's files!" Jim growled. It wasn't the first time he'd made that pronouncement.

"Detective, whether you like it or not, hell, whether any of us likes it, Judith Elliott is a Bolt. Or at least the widow of one. It may not be right, but that name gives her certain privileges. And no judge in this state is going to give us a subpoena with no more evidence than we have. What are we supposed to say, that *you* know there's a link between Angela McBerry's murder and Cami Hughes? And *how* do you know? Because you smelled something at both crime scenes!" The moment the words left his mouth Simon wished he could pull them back. Ellison was feeling frustrated enough about not being able to identify the faint scent he'd smelled at both crime scenes. 

Angela McBerry was a wealthy widow who regularly obtained an escort from Enchanting Evening Escorts. Judith Elliott, the owner of Enchanting Evening, admitted that, but denied any of her employees could have had anything to do with the woman's death. Suspicion had so quickly turned to Marc McBerry, the dead woman's nephew and sole heir, that very little investigation of the escort service had been done. 

Until the murder of Cami Hughes, Marc McBerry's girlfriend. Stabbed once in the heart, Cami's dead body was found in Cascade's Riverfront Park, not half a block from the rambling mansion that housed the escort service. In the pocket of her jeans was a letter to Blair Sandburg, accusing the escort service of somehow being involved in the murder of Angela McBerry. The letter went on to say she was going to the house to accuse Judith Elliott and would mail the letter on the way. 

But the letter had never been mailed, and there was no evidence that Cami had reached Judith Elliott's mansion. Elliott denied ever meeting the girl. Cami's death might have been passed off as just a bizarre coincidence if not for the faint, unidentifiable smell that Jim smelled that night in the park, the same scent he had smelled in Angela McBerry's elegant living room the night her dead body had been discovered. 

It wasn't much of a link, but it was all they had, and Ellison and the rest of Major Crimes grabbed at it. Or, at least, they would have, had they been allowed to. 

Judith Elliott didn't like Jim Ellison. She cared for his boss, Simon Banks, even less. And she detested the idea of her very high-class, exclusive, and completely reputable service, being dragged through a scandal such as the infamous Heidi Fleiss. And Judith Elliott had powerful connections. 

At one point in her life, not too long after she had been a runner-up in the Miss America pageant, Judith Elliott had been Judy Bolt, wife of a perfectly nice man named Paul Bolt, who had unfortunately been killed when he flew his small, single engine plane into the side of a mountain. The Bolt family was rich; more than that, they were extremely powerful. The Bolt and Stemple families had essentially built the city of Seattle, and by extension the state of Washington, and rarely let anyone forget it. 

Judy went to her former grandmother-in-law. Corinna Bolt called her friend, the Governor. The Governor called his political crony, the Mayor of Cascade. The next thing anybody knew, Major Crimes had been saddled with Denise Kalp, to "liaison" and "advise", which really meant to make sure Judith Elliott wasn't any more disturbed than she already had been.

Judith Elliott didn't want police undercover either as escorts or clients. That was okay with Jim Ellison; since he hadn't ruled her out as a suspect yet, he didn't particularly want her to know who was assigned. But it was difficult getting anyone undercover in either role: either Judy or her sister interviewed every single new client before they sent an escort, and in addition kept a private detective on retainer for background checks. It was even more difficult to get someone in as an escort: Judy hired only highly-educated, physically attractive people with impeccable references.

And that was where Blair Sandburg came in. Burning with misplaced guilt and responsibility, he'd gone to Kalp and volunteered to "infiltrate" the escort service. Somehow the Cascade PD had managed to keep Cami's last letter from the notice of the press, so there was nothing to link him to the investigation; Denise had taken one good look at his long dark hair, trim body and sapphire blue eyes, and decided he'd be manna from Heaven to the owner of an escort service. Without even mentioning what he was doing to Jim or to any other member of Major Crimes, Blair had sought out a friend, another grad student who had worked for Judy for several months, and got her to call Judy to set up an appointment for an interview. Realizing that living with a cop--moreover, the cop that was directing the investigation--could be a killing point on his resume, Blair lied and said Jim had kicked him out. He was homeless, Sandburg admitted ruefully, and, since he wasn't teaching during the summer, broke as well. 

Whether it was the fact he was a doctoral candidate, or that he fluently spoke three languages besides English, or his good looks, or simply that she couldn't resist those puppy-dog eyes, Judy hired him. Blair was moved into her mansion on Rose Hill Road before Jim had completely figured out what was going on. 

He'd been there ten days, had six "assignments", and learned nothing useful. In the meantime, Jim's temper, never very mellow, had become downright surly. 

"Still no idea what it was you smelled?" Simon asked, his tone interested. Jim shook his head and glanced at his watch. 

"Am I keeping you from something, Detective?" Simon added sarcastically.

Jim didn't respond to the sarcasm, realizing it came from frustration. He answered, "Sandburg is coming over tonight about eight. We're going to go over it again." 

*** *** ***

'First time everybody's been all together since I came here,' Blair thought, studying the faces around the table as he nibbled at beef stroganoff.

Tuesday was apparently a slow evening in the escort business. Claire Davis was the only one with an "engagement": she was accompanying a visiting author to a late reception in his honor. Claire was in her mid-thirties, older than most of the rest of them, and divorced from a doctor who had supposedly treated her pretty shabbily. She was impeccably groomed as usual, wearing a mid-length wine-colored silk dress, and she was listening intently as Tony, sitting next to her, hastily gave her a rundown of the author's last book. 

Judith Elliott sat at the head of the table, playing with her food rather than eating it. Her impeccably made-up face looked tense. Twenty years before Judith Elliott had been Miss California and a runner-up in the Miss America pageant. Much of that famed beauty was faded now, lost to too many cigarettes, too many hours of dedicated sunbathing. Fine lines surrounded her dark eyes and made furrows across her forehead. Her hair was bleached two shades too blonde for her skin tone, but Judith Elliott Bolt still had something of the quality that entranced men and had captivated a millionaire. Judy had called a "meeting" just before dinner. It was more like a briefing. In short, clipped sentences she explained that the police were still investigating the murders of Angela McBerry and Cami Hughes; that the escort agency was still under investigation as a possible link; that they were not to talk to any police without first discussing it with Judith or her sister Cynthia. Then, she had gone on to remind them that they were not to engage in romantic or sexual relations with paying customers. Her expression had been fierce, but that was all she had said, signaling to her sister to bring in the first of the dinner dishes. 

Blair's eyes slid to where Cynthia sat at the foot of the table. Shorter and younger than her sister, she was plumper too, and possessed of a relentlessly cheerful disposition. Cynthia loved to cook and was building her own catering business, working out of the kitchen here in her sister's house. Her beef stroganoff was the best Blair had ever eaten. 'Too bad I can't take a doggie bag to Jim; he loves beef stroganoff.' 

Next to Cynthia sat Bish. A huge, usually-silent young man with innocent eyes, Bish served as muscle around the house, took care of the lawn, and washed everybody's cars at least weekly. He lived in a small room off the kitchen and spent most of his free time in his room or with Cynthia in the kitchen. 

Scott Wheeler was a writer, supposedly, supporting himself while waiting for his first novel to be published. He was friendly, but not as warm and welcoming as Tony Giacamo, who had been the first to join Judith's escort service and seemed happy enough to make it his life's work. Blair spent a lot of time with Tony; remembering he had been the last to see Angela McBerry alive, but the short, dark-haired Italian-American seemed genuinely upset by her death. 

Blair's eyes drifted over Tony to study the slim, dark girl seated on the other side of him. Jasmine Ronaya. An exchange student at Rainier, she spoke English with an upper-class British accent. She was cordial, but not overwhelmingly friendly. 

The other three members of the household Blair didn't know well. Tammy Cooper was the youngest, just nineteen. She looked and acted like a typical California beach bunny, but was studying premed. Erik Baker was the newest employee, next to Blair; he was entering his senior year at Rainier and never had much to say. Ty Nelson worked for Judy every summer; he was a point guard on the Rainier basketball team and the son of a Chicago banker. 

Someone said his name and Blair looked up, startled, to see Tony staring across the table at him. "Blair? You with us?" 

Blair felt his cheeks getting hot. "Sorry, man, my mind was wandering."

"To outer space, I'd say," Tony laughed, but his dark eyes were wary. "We were just talking about going out. Since we've all got the night off but Claire. You know? A movie, maybe hit a couple of clubs. You in?" 

"Umm, sounds great, but I can't. I told my ex-roommate I'd get the rest of my stuff out tonight. If I don't show, he's likely to toss it out into the street." 

"Oh, yeah, the cop," Scott joined the conversation, buttering another roll, his eyes never leaving Blair's face. "Saw him on TV yesterday. Sure seems like a hard-ass. How'd you ever end up living with him, anyway?"

The words fell into a pool of silence. Blair noticed everyone was looking at him, or trying hard to pretend they weren't. He took his time answering, carefully chewing and swallowing before he said, "My dissertation topic is on closed societies, you know? Police, military, fire departments, that kind of thing. So I managed to get permission to tag along with Jim for awhile. When I lost my place, I think he kind of felt responsible or something, anyway, I talked him into letting me rent a room from him." He forced a laugh. "Man, I'd have been better off joining the Marines, the guy is anal! Has a list of house rules a mile long. One day I made a misstep and the next thing I knew I was out of a place to live and persona non gratis at the station." 

"Why don't Scott and I go over with you tonight, and help get your stuff?" Tony offered. "Better than you trying to move it all by yourself. Okay with you, Scotty?" 

The other man nodded. "Yeah. I'd be glad to help."

Blair gulped air and water at the same time, trying to think of a way out of this one. "Hey, man, that's nice of you to offer, but, no. See, I owe him some money --the last month's rent-- and he's probably going to want to talk about it. Could get a little uncomfortable. 

"All the more reason we should go with you," Scott insisted. "I mean, that guy looks dangerous, things could get hairy if he's as mad as you say. What do you think, Judy?" 

Judy pursed her lips, studying Blair, who struggled to keep his face from revealing his sudden dismay. "Do you feel you are in physical danger from this man?" she asked him point-blank. 

"Judy, he's a cop!" Blair protested. "He's just going to yell at me, then I'll get my stuff and get out of there. Embarrassing, but not dangerous."

Judy studied him with those hard, cold dark eyes, before she nodded. The subject was dropped. 

*** *** ***

Blair was jumpy as he finally drove the Volvo away from the slate-gray mansion on the hill. Over and over he replayed the conversation in his head, wondering if maybe someone suspected him. 'Surely not,' he tried to assure himself. But he couldn't help watching in the rear-view mirror. That pickup truck, the light one... was it following him? 

He changed lanes suddenly, watching as the truck did also. It stayed a few cars behind as he got on the freeway. Worried in spite of himself, Blair exited without signaling almost three miles before he planned. He ran the stop sign at the bottom of the hill, making a hard left and then getting back on the freeway going the opposite direction. No sign of the pickup truck, and he relaxed, exited again, then took the streets over to Prospect and the loft. 

There were no headlights behind him as he pulled into the parking lot. He waited for fully five minutes before he finally got out of the car and pulled the empty boxes he'd scavenged from a liquor store from his trunk. As he was entering the building, he caught sight of a light-colored pickup, driving slowly past. Blair yanked open the door leading to the staircase and raced up the three flights, his boxes bumping into the walls. 

Jim had the door open before Blair even hit the hallway. "What's wrong?" the Sentinel asked sharply, looking around before he gently pushed Blair before him into the apartment. He put his hands on his shoulders and looked at him, his face concerned. "Chief, what's wrong? Your heart is racing." 

Blair gasped for breath. "Nothing, man, I mean, maybe something, I don't know. I think maybe I was followed." Quickly he told his partner about the dinner table conversation and about the truck he thought had been tailing him. 

Jim guided him to the couch and sat opposite him, brow furrowed. "Does anybody there have a truck like that?" 

Blair nodded. "There's one parked behind the house, I'm not sure who it belongs to, I've never seen anyone actually drive it." 

Jim frowned. "I don't like it, Chief. I think we need to pull you out of there." 

"Jim, there's no need! Everything's cool. Even if they were following me--" Blair stopped as a horrible thought occurred to him. "Oh, shit!" he groaned, falling back against the couch cushions. "Oh, man, what an idiot I am. If someone was following me, by trying to shake them I let on that I knew it!" 

Jim nodded grimly. "I'm calling Simon," he said abruptly, reaching for the phone. 

*** *** ***

If Jim had hoped that Simon would agree the situation was too dangerous for Blair to remain, he was sadly disappointed. Banks listened patiently enough, but rightfully pointed out that there was no real evidence anyone had followed Blair. "You know how many light-colored pick-up trucks there are in this city?" the captain asked rhetorically. 

While Jim was on the phone, Blair took the empty boxes into his room and started filling them with his possessions. Several minutes later, Jim followed him into the room, rubbing his head as though he had a severe headache. "Chief, Simon--" he broke off. "What the *hell* are you doing?" he roared. 

"I told them I was coming over here to get my stuff out," Blair reminded him. "It'd look pretty funny if I went back with empty cartons. Judy said I could store things down in the basement." He went on filling a carton with his books, very aware of the brooding silence from behind him. In a way, Jim's reaction relieved him a bit. Sometimes he couldn't help but wonder if he'd worn out his welcome; if Jim wouldn't rather have the loft to himself. The feelings had been growing in the weeks since Jim had repressed his Sentinel senses, only to regain them in order to find the killer of his old shaman, Incacha. 

During those few days when Jim was without his enhanced senses, Blair had gone through agonies, wondering of what use was *he* in Jim's life; if Jim wasn't a Sentinel, he didn't need a Guide; did he still want Blair in his life? The younger man had tried to ask, but it hadn't come out right and he'd never really gotten an answer. 

At least, Jim seemed agitated *now* about the possibility of him leaving. Blair hid a smile as he leaned over the box, stuffing a few more ponderous volumes into it. 

*** *** ***

It was late, almost two a.m., before Blair reached the gray stone mansion. After he'd filled the cartons he'd brought, Jim had insisted they go out for a late snack. Then he'd mentioned, again, that faint and unidentifiable scent he'd smelled at both crime scenes. The thought of Jim not being able to control some aspect of his senses always worried Blair; so after they'd returned to the loft he'd bullied Jim into trying some exercises. Then they'd had a beer together and with one thing and another time had got by them. 

There were a few dim lights burning in the downstairs windows when Blair pulled up through the covered stone arches into the paved parking area. His key only fit the front door, but the back door was closer so he went there first. Sometimes, when she had an important catering assignment the next day, Cynthia would be in the kitchen until the wee hours. Not tonight, though; the kitchen was dark, only one small light burning over the stove. Flickering light and shadow from the alcove that led to Bish's small room led Blair to believe the television was on in there. He risked knocking one or twice, quietly, but received no response. Either Bish couldn't hear him over the blare of the TV, or the big man had fallen asleep in front of it as he so often did. 

Grumbling, Blair walked along smooth flagstone pathway that led around the house to the front door, using the key to let himself in. One small light was on in the entranceway, and surprisingly, another light beamed from the half-open door of Judith Elliott's office. He stepped to the door and peered in. The light was coming from the Tiffany lamp on the desk but there was no one in the office. The desktop was neat and orderly; a small stack of envelopes, stamped and addressed, in one corner. He hesitated, but for some reason he felt uncomfortable venturing into the office, so he left the light on and just closed the door. 

His room was on the third floor in the kitchen wing. The corresponding rooms on the second floor, he knew, formed Cynthia's suite: she had a sitting room and a huge bathroom in addition to her bedroom. Blair hurried quietly past her rooms and up the narrower staircase that led to the third floor. Claire's room was the first one, his next to it. Around the corner in a dead-end hallway was Jasmine's room and the huge bathroom the three of them shared. He went there first, smelling as usual the faint but warring scents of the two women's perfumes; washed his face and hands, brushed his teeth and used the toilet. He tiptoed past Jasmine's door and closed his own before fumbling along the wall for the light switch. 

There was a small tray on his bedside table, covered with a cloth napkin. Lifting the napkin revealed a glass dessert bowl filled with lemon mousse. A note beside it was from Cynthia. "You left before dessert tonight so this is for you! -C." He grinned as he quickly stripped down to his boxers and climbed into the big bed. He ate about half the serving of mousse before turning off the light and sliding into sleep. 

His sleep was deep but restless, plagued by weird, surreal dreams. Time and time again he tried to struggle awake, only to be relentlessly dragged back into the heavy darkness that brought no rest. 

The prolonged, shrill scream of his alarm finally jolted him awake, oddly panicked, his eyelids so heavy he could barely keep them open. His head and his heart were both pounding as he stumbled from the bed and out the door, intent on brushing his teeth to get rid of the awful taste in his mouth. 

The bathroom door stuck a little as it sometimes did and he shoved against it impatiently, losing his balance when it suddenly opened. He scrubbed his teeth hard, replenishing the toothpaste twice, before he finally gave up and stripped off his boxers, reaching for the doorknob into the shower room. It was pitch black in there and he pressed the light switch. Acid white light flooded the small room. 

Blair stumbled backwards, a scream rising from his chest but getting stuck in his throat. His horrified eyes captured the picture before them, the long green silk robe, the matching belt wrapped around the neck of the figure below the purple, congested face half-hidden behind dark, trailing hair. 

The body of Jasmine Ranaya swung gently from the light fixture.

** ** **

Jim Ellison turned the corner to Rose Hill Road on two wheels, roaring up the hill and into the gently curving driveway. It was a cool, misty morning and every window in the long gray mansion was lit up, bright pools of golden light spilling out onto the manicured grounds. The driveway was full of cars, official vehicles with red and blue lights whirling atop them. Jim threw his truck into park and jumped out, swiftly striding to the clump of people huddled on the lawn. A tall figure intercepted him. "Easy, Jim," Simon Banks said, grabbing the Sentinel's arm. 

Jim tried to shake him off. "Who's the victim?" he snapped. Fear, unacknowledged, unadressed, clogged his throat. 

"It's not Sandburg," Banks assured him. "He found the body. It was a young woman named Jasmine Ronaya. British national. Hanging from the light fixture in the bathroom." 

Jim barely heard the rest of his sentence, he was so relieved to hear his partner wasn't the victim. Then he frowned. "Sandburg found her?"

Banks nodded. "He's in the house." Then he pitched his voice so softly that only Sentinel ears could hear the next words. "Be careful, Jim. Remember, as far as these people know you and he aren't getting along very well." 

Ellison clenched his jaw, then nodded, once. Personally, he wanted to take his partner out of this place tonight, but one wrong move could blow Blair's cover and possibly endanger his life. 

Banks appeared satisfied and gestured Ellison toward the elaborately-carved front doors. Before he could move in that direction, they opened and Judith Elliott came out. 

A different Judith Elliott than before, a frightened woman, her arms clutched around her as if she were very cold, in spite of the heavy velvet housecoat she wore. Her eyes, as they met Jim's, were terrified. "Detective Ellison," she greeted him, her voice shaking. 

"Ms. Elliott," the detective returned warily. "I'm sorry about your... employee." 

Tears spurted from Judith's eyes, spilled down her worn but still-beautiful face. "She was more than an employee, Detective.... they all are. We're a family here." 

Jim held his tongue. Judith wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her housecoat and visibly tried to regain her composure. "Detective, I realize I haven't been as cooperative as you probably would have liked me to be since these killings started..." 

"That's an understatement, Ma'am," Jim shot back.

"What you need to understand is that I *really* didn't think the murders had anything to do with me, or with this business. But now--someone, some killer, came into my home and killed Jasmine in her own bathroom! Where she had every reason to feel safe. Because, I don't care what that stupid woman says, Jasmine did not kill herself!" 

"What woman?" Jim asked, puzzled, then he groaned as the answer occurred to him. "Welles is already here?" he asked his captain. Banks nodded.

"She's upstairs with Rafe."

Rafe was in the narrow hallway outside the bathroom, leaning against the wall with a glazed look in his eyes as Cassie prattled at him. Two Forensics techs were in the bathroom itself, managing to do their job without any guidance from their boss. Jim spared a glance at the pathetic body hanging from the ceiling fixture, suspended by a narrow blue silk belt that looked like it matched the robe which flared around the thin body. Jim took one look at the face, then looked away, unconsciously bracing himself to deal with Cassie. 

"Jim!" the redhead exclaimed. "I didn't know you were here. You can relax--Rafe and I are sure it's a suicide." 

One of the technicians in the bathroom looked up from the faucet he was dusting with fingerprint powder and started to protest, but Jim caught his eye and shook his head at him. "Mind if I make my own investigation, Cassie?" he asked mildly. 

"Well, if you feel you have to. But it is *so* obvious." The woman started to walk briskly down the hall. "I'll bet you ten dollars we'll find a note in her room." 

Rafe belatedly came awake as he realized where she was headed. "Dr. Welles," he protested. Cassie paid no attention. Jim gestured with a movement of his head and the younger detective took off after Cassie like an arrow loosed from the bow. 

"Unless she can explain how the woman managed to hoist herself up there with no chair or anything else around that she could have climbed on, I don't think it's suicide," the technician said to Jim. 

Stepping into the room, Jim could see what he meant. The bathroom was enormous, with the shower, tub and john all in separate alcoves. He glanced at the countertop around the sink, but immediately realized the ceiling was too high and Jasmine too short for her to have been able to stand on it and reach the fixture. The Sentinel looked away, oddly queasy. "As soon as the photographer is done in here, get the body down. The coroner should be here soon." He stepped out of the bathroom and asked the uniformed officer, "Do you know where Blair Sandburg is?" 

"Who?" the uniform blankly. He was young, probably just out of the academy, and Jim noticed that he was studiously avoiding looking at the body.

"The guy who found her," Jim elaborated, forcing a patience he didn't feel. Something was urging him to get to his Guide. 

"Oh!" the officer, "J. Grimes" according to his nametag, looked embarrassed. "Yeah. He's downstairs. In the kitchen, I think." 

Blair was sitting at the round oak table in the kitchen, drinking something out of an oversized mug. A man about Blair's age, and a woman who looked to be several years older were at the table also. Another woman (Jim recognized her as Cynthia, Judith Elliott's sister) was at the stove, stirring something in a skillet. The wonderful aroma of fresh-baked bread and coffee reminded the detective he hadn't had any breakfast. Ruthlessly suppressing his hunger pains, he looked at Blair, eyes narrowing in concern at the kid's hunched posture. Mindful of Banks' caution, he grunted, "Sandburg." 

Blair threw him a startled glance, then awareness quickly crossed his face. He looked down. "Jim." His voice was cool. 

"I understand you found Miss Ronaya's body?"

Blair nodded. His face was pale. He lifted the mug with shaking hands. Jim shot a swift look at the other two people at the table, then noticed the way Cynthia paused over her work, obviously listening. "Is there some place I can talk to you in private?" 

"Is that necessary, Detective?" Judith Elliott demanded from the doorway.

"Yes, ma'am, it is. I need to talk to everyone, and I need to hear what they know, not what they heard someone else say," Jim shot back. "I thought we had your cooperation now." 

Judith held his glare for a minute, then looked down. "You do," she sighed, moving into the kitchen and accepting the mug of coffee her sister held out to her. "You can use my office." *** *** ***

The small room off the entrance hall was hot and stuffy and reeked of stale cigarette smoke. Nose wrinkling in distaste, Jim crossed to the leaded glass windows and opened them, letting gusts of fresh, damp air into the room. He glanced in concern at his partner, who slumped bonelessly in the leather armchair in front of the desk. "You okay?" he asked, coming around to lay a supportive hand on Blair's shoulder. 

"Yeah." Blair rubbed his hand across his face. "It was just rough, finding her like that, you know?" 

Jim sat on the corner of the desk and waited until the younger man looked at him. "I know, Chief, and I'm sorry to make you talk about it. But I need to know what happened." 

Blair shrugged tiredly. "Jim, all I know is she wasn't there when I got home around two, and then when I got up this morning..." 

"Did you hear anything during the night?" Jim hated to add the next part. "If she was alive when she was... put up there, there would have been noises." He didn't elaborate, nor, judging from the pallor of his Guide's face, did he need to. 

The younger man shook his head wearily. "I don't think so. But I had these wild dreams all night, you know? Kept trying to wake up and I couldn't. It was like..." he stopped suddenly. A frightened expression swiftly crossed his face. 

"Chief?" Jim prodded gently.

After several minutes, Blair looked at the Sentinel, his blue eyes huge in his pale face. "Jim, remember when I was in the hospital? After the Golden thing, I mean?" 

Jim winced. As if he could ever forget *that*: the hiss of the respirator as it forced air into flaccid lungs; the erratic heartbeat, racing one minute, deathly slow the next; the frightening stillness of his Guide in the hospital bed. He rubbed a hand wearily across his eyes. "I'm not likely to forget that in this lifetime, Chief. Why?" 

"The dreams.... that's what they were like, man." Blair frowned again. "I mean, I don't remember much about being in the coma, but I remember these dreams, and trying so hard to wake up, like I was swimming to the top of the water but before I could get there, something would drag me down again." Blair's voice had been dropping as he spoke and now he added the next words in a whisper. "That was what last night was like."

Caught in remembered horror, it took Jim a few minutes to realize what the younger man was implying. "You think you were drugged last night? How? When?" 

"The lemon mousse!" Blair exclaimed.

They bumped into the coroner's assistants carrying Jasmine's body down the stairs. Blair averted his eyes from the stretcher and the bodybag and then ran up the last flight of stairs to the third floor. No signs of Cassie or Rafe; from the sounds of their conversation, the technicians were just finishing up. Jim stood close beside Blair as the younger man opened his door and silently pointed to the bowl on the stand next to the bed. It was partially filled with a congealed yellowish substance. Jim sniffed it once, then relaxed, opening his mind and allowing his Sentinel sense of smell take over. Lemon, sure, and something else.... but the problem was, Jim hadn't smelled the lemon mousse in its original state and couldn't identify the other substances as to whether they were foreign or not. 

He shook his head. "I can't tell, Chief, we'll have to send it in for analysis." He studied Blair carefully, gauging the younger man's condition, comparing it in his mind to "normal" Blair. Pulse and respiration slower than usual, especially given the circumstances. He frowned, concerned. "I think we should swing by the hospital, get you checked out." 

As he'd expected, Blair shook his head at that idea even as he sank down onto the bed. "I'm fine," he protested. "Just kind of groggy." He closed his eyes. 

Jim opened his mouth to argue the point, but was distracted by the sight of the technicians preparing to leave. He went to the door and asked one of them to take a sample of the mousse and to dust the bowl for fingerprints, even though he doubted that would be of much help to them. Then, seeing Rafe down the hall, he walked towards him. "Where's Welles?" he asked. Maybe Cassie could analyze the mousse in that little crime lab on wheels she called a van and they would know something quickly. 

Rafe rolled his eyes. "She left. Some evidence the DA needs ASAP for the Clinesmith trial has disappeared. Although she swears it hasn't, she just filed it somewhere else. Anyway, she went back to the station to find it. Jim, look at this." He handed the detective the evidence bag he had in his hand. "I found it in the victim's room, in the bedside table." 

Jim took the bag. Inside was a bankbook, the hunter-green and gold insignia identifying it as being from the First State Bank of Cascade. Rafe wordlessly offered him a plastic glove and Jim slipped it on before opening the bag. 

It wasn't a checkbook but a savings account passbook. The name on the account was Jasmine Ronaya, and the entries showed regular deposits going back over the last three months. The size of the deposits, and the total amount in the account, caused Jim's lips to purse in a soundless whistle.

"These escorts must get paid awfully well," Rafe said dryly.

"Yeah. Think I'll let Sandburg buy lunch," Jim returned, turning on his heel and heading back to Blair's room. The student was, impossibly, dozing, and Jim frowned before gently shaking him awake. "Take a look at this, Chief," he said, when Blair's eyes finally opened. 

Blair stifled a yawn as he tried to focus on the book that Jim was waving in front of his face. He sat upright as he caught sight of the totals. "Jeez! Where'd she get that kind of money?" 

"I gather this isn't all from her pay here, then?" Jim asked dryly.

"Hardly. Everybody here gets the same amount, supposedly, three hundred a week. Not bad, especially when you realize all living expenses are take care of, but nothing like *that!*" Blair did some fast adding. "She's depositing almost seven thousand dollars a month!" 

"Maybe it's from her family," Rafe volunteered.

"I don't think so, I mean, if her family could send her that kind of money, what was she doing working for Judy? I always got the idea she was doing it to put herself through school, or help, rather, I know she was on some kind of scholarship." Blair pulled himself from the bed with a sudden spurt of energy. "I have a friend who works in the Financial Aid office during the school year, I can call her and ask." 

"Later," Jim told him. He handed the bank book back to Rafe. "Take this, go to the bank. See if they'll let you see the records of deposit without a subpoena, find out where those deposits came from, what form, anything you can." 

"The bank can claim that's all confidential," Rafe pointed out.

"If they do we'll get a court order. But the VP of that branch is Daniel Kruzen. He used to be a cop, long time ago. If he knows the account holder is a murder victim, he might bend the rules." Jim turned back to his roommate. "Chief, I want you to go with Rafe. He can drop you off at the hospital, make sure you're okay." 

Blair shook his head. "No way, Jim, I'm fine. Just drowsy." He went on, forestalling the argument, "If Cassie analyses that mousse and decides there's something toxic in it, I'll go to the hospital, but for right now I'm staying here." 

Jim spent the next three hours interviewing the various members of the household, gradually getting a picture of what the evening before had been like. He didn't mention anything to any of them about the lemon mousse possibly being drugged or the bankbook they'd found in Jasmine's room, preferring to wait until he had more information from Cassie and Rafe. 

He reviewed his notes. The entire household with the exception of Paulo Somebody--no one seemed all that sure of last names, had eaten dinner together about six thirty. During the meal, Judy Elliott had mentioned the murder of Angela McBerry. Blair, Scott Giacomo, Tony Smith and Claire Thomas had all left before dessert, Blair to see Jim, the other two men to drop Claire Thomas off at the Emeraude Hotel downtown, where she was to meet her client for the evening. After leaving her there, they had returned to the house via a nearby video rental store, where they had rented several movies. Everyone in the house except Jasmine, Judy Elliott, Cynthia Elliott and Bish had spent the entire evening in the living room, watching movies and eating popcorn. There had been the occasional foray to the bathroom or for more snacks, but the no one remembered, or admitted, anyone else being gone for more than a few minutes. 

Judy Elliott had spent the evening in her office, working on accounts. The door was open and several of the young people stated they had seen her at different times as they emerged from the living room. 

Cynthia and Bish had cleaned up the kitchen from dinner, then Cynthia had started making food for a wedding reception she was catering over the weekend. She was battling a migraine, though, and about nine-thirty she had decided to go to bed. Jasmine Ronaya had entered the kitchen as Cynthia was leaving; apparently having been for a walk around the grounds. 

The video-viewing group broke up shortly before midnight, adjourning to their separate rooms. Judith Elliott worked in her office until one and locked up the house before she went to bed. 

"Then Sandburg got here about two," Jim mused aloud. He frowned. Leaving Elliott's office, he walked directly to the kitchen. As he had hoped, Judith Elliott and her sister were both there, along with the huge, silent Bish, whom Jim had yet to interview. 

"Are you finished, Detective?" Judith Elliott asked, he voice ragged. She lit another cigarette from the butt in her fingers. 

"Almost, I think," Jim answered pleasantly. "I just have one or two questions... When was the last time any of you saw the victim?" 

Cynthia spoke up first. "As I said, she was just coming in when I decided to go upstairs. I asked her if she was going to her room and she said yes, so I had her take some dessert up to Claire and Blair's rooms, since they didn't get any. She went up the stairs after me." 

Judith shrugged. "I saw her at dinner, I don't remember seeing her after that." 

"She didn't join the group watching movies? Does that seem odd to you?"

"Not really. Jasmine was somewhat reclusive, she tended to be a bit of a loner. Not unfriendly, really, but she wouldn't usually join in with the others and their activities." 

Jim turned to Bish. The big man hadn't said anything. Before Jim could ask him what he had done after Cynthia had left the kitchen, his cell phone rang. It was Rafe. Jim listened to the younger detective, then his eyes narrowed and he said, "Get the copies of those transactions and get back here." He hit the disconnect button, then, under the interested gaze of three pairs of eyes, he dialed Cassie's lab. "It's Ellison," he snapped into the phone. "Do you have the results of that analysis on the lemon mousse? What?... How much?" He sucked in his breath as he listened to Cassie's high, excited voice, then said, "Thanks," and disconnected while she was still squawking. 

"What about the lemon mousse?" Cynthia asked suspiciously.

Jim decided to tell her. "We had the leftover mousse from Blair Sandburg's room analyzed. It was loaded with chlorpromazine." 

Cynthia looked puzzled. "What's that?"

"It's a sedative. A very strong one. Strong enough," Jim ground out, "that if Sandburg had eaten the whole dish, in all probability he would have died." He ignored Cynthia's horrified gasp to swing on her sister. "I need to speak to you in private," he demanded. 

Judy lifted her head proudly. "Anything you want to say to me you can say in front of them." 

"I think it would be best if we spoke in your office," Jim insisted.

The woman refused to budge. Finally Ellison took a deep breath and stated, "We found a bankbook in Jasmine Ronaya's room, showing considerable deposits over the last three month period." His Sentinel senses picked up the sudden increase in Elliott's heartrate. "We checked the bank records. Jasmine Ronaya only had deposits from two sources, her regular paychecks from Enchanted Evening Inc, and nineteen five-thousand dollar cashier checks." He stopped. Cynthia looked puzzled, Bish confused, but Judith Elliott's face showed no reaction whatsoever. But her heartbeat thundered in Jim's ears as he added, "The cashier checks were drawn from an account at the First National Bank. An account in the name of Judith Elliott." He lifted his eyebrows. "Now, Ms. Elliott, do we want to move this conversation to your office... or downtown to mine?" 

*** **** ***

Blair lay on the bed and stared tiredly at the ceiling.

His body ached from the need for sleep and his eyelids kept drifting shut. But his mind refused to shut down. 

'I heard something last night', he thought, anguished. 'Why can't I grab hold of it?' 

The harder he tried the more remote the memory became. Firmly, he closed his eyes, banishing sleep with an effort, breathing slowly and deeply, trying to ease his mind into a meditative state... 

~~Dream and waking became mixed; nightmare of sleep and nightmare of waking impossible to differentiate between. Voices. Hushed. Hurried. A dragging sound. Words, making no sense. 

Why this way?

It's a distraction.

She's asleep, isn't she?

She won't know what's happening. You're too soft. You knew this would have to happen eventually. 

No I didn't. There should be some other way....

There's not! And we've come too far~~..

Quick, light steps in the hallway startled him awake. Blair sat upright in bed, cold sweat trickling down his neck and the small of his back. The clock showed thirty-three minutes had elapsed since he'd laid down. 'Oh, God. Was that a memory? Or a dream?' 

He felt as if he were smothering suddenly and he lurched from the bed, stumbling to the window and forcing it open, dragging in deep breaths of cold misty air into his starving lungs. He shivered, feeling the cold dry the sweat, but he couldn't move to go back into the warmth of his room. 

He looked down, noticing with surprise he was almost exactly above the spot where he had found the coat last night. *The coat!* He had forgotten to mention it to Jim. When he'd come in last night he'd tossed it across the blue slipper chair in the corner. Blair started to turn back into the room when a flicker of movement caught his eye. 

His room was at the corner, where the north and west walls of the house joined. By leaning his head out, he could look directly into the room at fight angles from his. 

Jasmine's room.

Was that a flicker of something white again? 

Determinedly, Blair drew his head back in and stepped back from the window. He found his shoes where he'd kicked them underneath the bed and tied the laces with trembling fingers. Then he slipped from his room, down the hall and around the corner. 

Yellow police tape crossed the closed door of the bathroom. But no tape was stretched across Jasmine's door. Taking a deep breath, Blair put his hand on the doorknob. 

It turned. The door silently opened.

He stepped inside, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dimness; he didn't turn on the light. Jasmine's dressing table was closest to the window and he could see fingerprint powder on her comb and brush, the elegant shapes of perfume bottles, the plain wooden chest where she'd kept her jewelry. Idly he noticed that the lid was slightly open. 

He turned around, smelling the faint scent of her perfume and lotion as if it were impregnated into the very air of the room. A white half-slip and a bra were tossed over the back of the chair. A blue silk nightgown, the mate to the robe she'd been wearing when she died, was cast across the foot of the neatly-made bed. 

The room was silent. Then, into the hush, Blair heard the creak of a floor board. Heart pounding, every sense on alert, he took a step toward the closet. 

He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and he jumped, started to turn, saw a face. Even as he recognized it in stunned disbelief, a heavy weight smashed into his head and he crashed into blackness. 

*** *** ***

**[Continued in Part Two...](suekelley4b.htm) **

* * *


	2. Some Enchanted Evening (part two), by Sue Kelley

> [](../index.html)[New](../newarrivals.htm) Arrivals   
> [Author-Sue Kelley](../authors/auth-suekelley.htm)   
> [Titles](../titles/titlesa.htm)  
> 
> 
> Some Enchanted Evening  
> Part Two  
>  **by Sue Kelley**
> 
> See notes and disclaimer in [part one](suekelley4a.htm).
> 
> Bish was the first to move. Heavily, slowly, but every movement threatening, he stood up, took a step toward Jim. "You don't talk to Judy like that!" His voice was a low growl. 
> 
> Jim blinked. The young man was three or four inches taller than Ellison himself and easily fifty pounds heavier. 
> 
> "Bish!" Judy Elliott grabbed his arm gently, swinging him around to look at her. Her eyes were oddly intent as she framed his face with her small hands. "It's okay. Detective Ellison isn't an enemy. He has a job to do." She caressed his face. "It's all right," she added softly. 
> 
> An expression of confusion crossed the behemoth's face, followed by stark fear. "I'm sorry," he said uncertainly. "I'm sorry, Judy... did I do something wrong?" 
> 
> "No, sweetie, you didn't do anything wrong." Judy threw a pleading look at Ellison. "Why don't you go to your room for awhile? You bought those new comics yesterday, you haven't read them all, have you?" 
> 
> "I can go read my comics?" The young man's face lit up; Jim was reminded suddenly of Sandburg, how he looked when he discovered a new element of Jim's senses. 
> 
> Bish started from the room, then turned back. He stepped closer to Jim. "I'm sorry, Detective Ellison, I shouldn't have yelled at you." 
> 
> Jim cleared his throat. "That's all right, um, Bish. It was just a misunderstanding. As a matter of fact, I used to like comics myself, would you mind if I came in later and looked at yours?" 
> 
> Bish beamed. 'Not like Sandburg', Jim realized suddenly. 'More like a little kid who just got a treat...' 
> 
> "Cool!" Bish burbled. "I've got Batman, and X-Men, and Spider Man... I had Spawn but Judy made me get rid of them. She said they gave her the creeps." He laid a massive hand on Jim's arm, pointing to the alcove off the kitchen. "My room's back there, whenever you're ready." He moved away with his shambling gait and the pieces all fell into place for Jim. He waited until he heard the sound of a door close before he turned to the two women. Judith Elliott forestalled him before he could say anything.
> 
> "Thank you," she said simply.
> 
> "He's..." Jim hesitated. "Retarded" was the word that came to mind but he was pretty sure there was a different term used these days. "Special," he finished lamely, remembering how Sally, the housekeeper his father had employed, always referred to Mikey Collins who had lived down the street when Jim and Steven were kids. Mikey had Downs Syndrome. 
> 
> A faint smile touched Judy's lips. "Very special," she agreed. She sighed and sank down into a kitchen chair. "About that money in Jasmine's account," she started. 
> 
> "Should I leave?" her sister asked.
> 
> "That's not necessary," Judy said before Jim could say anything. "Detective, as I'm sure you've guessed, Jasmine was blackmailing me." 
> 
> "What?" Cynthia gasped.
> 
> Even thought he'd been expecting the answer, it still angered Jim. "You didn't feel this was pertinent information, Ms. Elliott?" 
> 
> The former beauty queen lifted her head proudly. "It would only have been pertinent if I had killed her. I did not kill Jasmine!" 
> 
> "What was she holding over you?" Jim demanded to know. Judith said nothing. 
> 
> "Judy," Cynthia said warningly.
> 
> "It had nothing to do with the murders, or the business," Judith Elliott said at last. "And I can't tell you, Detective. There's too much of a chance... well, let's just leave it that I can't tell you." 
> 
> "Let's *not* leave it there," Jim fired back.
> 
> "It has nothing to do with who poisoned the mousse!" she snapped. 
> 
> Jim drew breath to roar back at her, but a sudden, startled gasp stopped him. He swung around to look at Cynthia, whose already-pale face had gone three shades whiter. Ellison could hear the rapid beat of her heart. "What is it?" he asked. 
> 
> Cynthia's eyes, huge with apprehension, met his. "Detective, there were two bowls of mousse left over last night--" 
> 
> "You said you sent one up to someone else's room--" Jim started, then he realized what she was thinking. "Oh my God. Whose room?" 
> 
> "Claire Thomas. She was on an assignment last night." She visibly shook, terrified. "I haven't seen her today. Have you, Judy?" 
> 
> Judith Elliott shook her head slowly, eyes widening with alarm. "My God, you don't think she's lying up there, unconscious or-- dead?" 
> 
> Jim bolted for the back stairs, both women on his heels.
> 
> Up the three flights of the back staircase. Judith Elliott indicated the first door on the left, next to the one that Jim knew was Blair's room. He waved her back as he knocked firmly on the door. "Ms. Thomas?" he called. After a brief wait, he turned the old fashioned, painted china doorknob. Somewhat to his surprise, the door was unlocked and swung open to reveal a good-sized bedroom. It was rather dim inside, as the heavy drapes had not been pulled, but Jim of course could see easily, and there was no one inside. The emerald silk coverlet was smooth over the double bed. Jim clicked on the overhead light, so the two women could see, and nodded at them to enter. Cynthia went immediately to the bedside table, reaching for the glass dessert bowl that sat there, still covered with clingy cellophane wrap. 
> 
> "Don't touch that, please," Jim snapped. Cynthia snatched her hand back as if the bowl was hot. The Sentinel turned in a circle, surveying the room. There was a faint scent, probably perfume, and he frowned as something teased at his memory. 
> 
> "Excuse me? What's going on?"
> 
> The three of them turned at the sound of a woman's voice. Jim saw a slender brunette, possibly a few years younger than he, wearing a long, light-colored raincoat. She glanced from him to the two women, and her next comments were addressed to them. "Judy? Cyn? What's going on here?" 
> 
> "Where have you been, Claire?" Judith asked in relief.
> 
> "Ms. Thomas?" Jim interjected. At her nod, he went on, "We need to know what time you got in last night." 
> 
> Claire Thomas looked uncomfortable. She unbuttoned the top two buttons of her raincoat, revealing wine-red silk, then shrugged. "Excuse me, but who are you and what business of it is yours what time I got in?"
> 
> "Claire!" Judith snapped. "This is Detective Ellison. He's investigating Jasmine's murder." 
> 
> "Oh." The woman flushed. "I'm sorry... I'm just still in shock, I ran into Tony downstairs and he told me....I can't believe it-- Jasmine, murdered!" 
> 
> Judith sighed. "You didn't come home last night, did you? That's the same dress you were wearing when you left." 
> 
> "I'm sorry, Judy. I didn't mean to lie, I just knew you'd say not to go. David called, he wanted to meet.... I left the reception early and met him for a drink. One thing led to another...." 
> 
> "You left the reception early?" Judith's voice was cold as ice. "Claire, if you want to have a drink with your philandering ex-husband on *your* time, that's entirely your affair. But when you're on *my* time, he damn well better pay for the pleasure of your company." She snorted. "And how many times have I told you to throw away those shoes! Do you think men don't look at your feet?" 
> 
> Claire shuffled one foot in what was indeed a rather worn-looking black leather shoe. "It was raining last night," she said weakly. 
> 
> "It's always--" Judith started. Her sister nudged her. 
> 
> "Judy, this is not the time!" she hissed. 
> 
> Claire Thomas stepped back. "Is it all right if I go to my room and change?" she asked. After glaring at her for a full thirty seconds, Judith nodded. 
> 
> Jim heard the ornate chimes of the front doorbell. Glancing at his watch, he hoped it was Rafe back from the bank. The younger detective could help interrogate the residents of the house. He stepped toward Blair's door, knocked softly, then opened it quietly, hoping his Guide was asleep.
> 
> The room was empty.
> 
> 'I told him to stay in his room,' Jim thought. Then he shrugged. 'Oh well, Sandburg does what he wants!' The younger man had probably felt better and gone for a walk to help him think. 
> 
> *** *** ***
> 
> Jim sighed and stretched his long legs out under the antique cherry desk in Judith Bolt's study. "Who's left?" he asked Rafe. 
> 
> The younger detective flipped through his notebook. "Three more... no, four. Tammy Cooper, Scott Giacomo, somebody named 'Bish', and Judith Elliott." He flipped the notebook shut. "So far, we aren't getting much. No one heard anything, saw anything, or admits to seeing Jasmine Ronaya after dinner. And, with the exception of Claire Miller, they all give each other alibis." 
> 
> "For what they're worth," Jim commented. "Most of them were watching the TV. The living room is big and supposedly only one or two lights were on. You know how it goes, you're interested in a movie and someone gets up, to get a drink or go to the bathroom, you don't know exactly how long they've been gone, even if you paid any attention to who it as in the first place. Besides, the ME's preliminary report puts the time of death sometime after midnight, when everyone was supposedly in their rooms, alone." He sighed again. "Get in contact with Miller's ex-husband," he said after a minute. "Make sure *her* alibi holds up, that'd be at least one we could cross off the list." 
> 
> Rafe made a note of it. "So who do you want to see next? Or should we take a lunch break?" 
> 
> Before Jim could answer, there was a light tap on the door and it opened to reveal Judith Elliott. She seemed rather ill at ease as she stepped inside. "Detectives... there are lunch fixings in the dining room. My sister and I would like you to join us for the meal. There's plenty of food." 
> 
> "That's very nice of you, but--" Jim started.
> 
> Judith held up her hand to stop his refusal. "Please... Detective Ellison. My sister has prepared enough to feed a starving third world nation. Her coping mechanism is cooking. Please don't hurt her feelings by refusing." She managed a smile. "Even policemen have to eat." 
> 
> Jim and Rafe exchanged glances, then Jim nodded. "Thank you."
> 
> "Thank *you*." Judith stood aside to let Rafe leave the room, but then caught Jim's arm. "If I might... have a word with you, Detective Ellison? In private?" 
> 
> Jim looked down at her for a second, then nodded for Rafe to go ahead and leave. He stepped back inside the study, closing the door. Judith went to the desk and pulled a package of cigarettes from the top drawer. Jim manfully stifled a cough as she used a crystal lighter to fire the smoke. 
> 
> The silence stretched between them.
> 
> "You wanted to speak with me?" Jim finally prompted. 
> 
> Judith took a deep breath. "Don't ever make the mistake of underestimating my sister, Detective," she said, not looking up from her study of the carpet. "She could give Corinna Bolt lessons in being a femme fordable!"
> 
> Not seeing what Cynthia Elliott or Corinna Bolt had to do with anything, Jim kept silent. 
> 
> Judith Elliott studied her hands. There was a long silence. Finally, just as Jim was deciding she wasn't going to tell him, she said flatly, "Jasmine found out that Bish is my son." 
> 
> After a startled silence, Jim slowly commented, "Well, I'm sure that would have been... awkward, for you, but was it worth all of that money to keep it quiet?" 
> 
> "It's worth everything I have to protect my son," Judith responded quietly. "Bish doesn't know, Detective. No one does, except Cynthia, and now you. I gave my baby up for adoption. I mean, I was nineteen, unmarried... I'd been the runner-up in the Miss America pageant, I had a scholarship to UCLA, I thought the world was ripe for the taking. Instead, I was ripe for the taking, by some smooth talking con artist I met at a party one weekend. I never saw him again. 
> 
> "So I gave the baby up. I didn't see any other choice; to be honest, I'm not sure I looked for one. I finished school and then I met Paul." Her voice changed, became soft, almost reverent. "He had everything... money, good looks, family background... and he fell in love with *me*... the ex-beauty queen from the hick town in Oklahoma. He gave me the kind of life I thought only happened in movies. Only thing was, we couldn't have children. I wanted a baby... I wanted Paul's baby, but I couldn't have it. So I started thinking about the baby I *did* have, somewhere.
> 
> "Then Paul was killed. For over a year, I just drifted. Then I started trying to find my child. I had to know he was okay. And I did find him, but he wasn't okay. Bish's... it's short for Bishop... adoptive parents had been killed in an accident. He'd been injured, brain damaged. No one wanted him, and he was in a school...." she shuddered. "School was what they called it. It was an institution, a horrible place. I had to get him out of there. It took over ten thousand dollars in legal bills, but I got custody of him. He was fifteen." 
> 
> She looked directly at Jim. "Do you have any idea what my mother-in-law would say if she knew the truth? My grandmother- in-law? All my high society 'friends'? But I could live with that, but I couldn't live with Bish looking at me and knowing I gave him up when he was a baby. 
> 
> "I have no idea how Jasmine found out. No idea at all. About three weeks after she moved in here, she left a letter on my desk with a copy of Bish's original birth certificate. It wasn't my copy, I checked that. She never said anything to me directly, but every few weeks another letter would show up on my desk, and I would get a cashier's check and deposit it into her account." 
> 
> There was a long silence again, which Jim broke with the words, "Do you have her notes?" 
> 
> "No. I couldn't risk anyone finding them. I burned each one after I got it." Judith stared at Jim imploringly. "Detective, I didn't kill Jasmine. I didn't even mind paying her that much, it was almost like absolution for giving Bish up when he was a baby." 
> 
> Jim stood up. "Ms. Elliott... take some advice from someone who's been there, and forgive yourself. You did the best you could. The accident wasn't your fault, and you're doing everything you can for your son now."
> 
> His cell phone rang. Judith, tears sparkling in her eyes, excused herself and slipped from the room. 
> 
> Simon was on the other end of the line. "Jim, I just got a call from the VP at Jasmine Ronaya's bank. Jasmine Ronaya's account has been emptied. Someone calling herself Jasmine Ronaya withdrew every penny and closed the account; went to one of the branch offices on the north side of town. Told the manager that a family emergency had come up and she had to leave town suddenly." 
> 
> "When was this?" Jim snapped.
> 
> "That's why the VP called when he got the record of transaction. It was at nine this morning. Hours after the real Jasmine Ronaya was murdered!"
> 
> *** *** ***
> 
> "I want to know where you cops are coming off, asking all these questions!"
> 
> The strident male voice assaulted Jim's ears as he entered the dining room. The owner of the voice, Jim tentatively identified him as Scott Wheeler, one of the inhabitants they had yet to interview, had Rafe backed into a corner and was yelling at him. The young detective had a plate piled high with food and a glass of iced tea in his hands and looked as if he wasn't sure what was going on. Jim quickly glanced around. The long dining table was loaded with platters of sandwich makings: roast beef and turkey and ham, loaves of fresh baked bread, white and wheat and fragrant oatmeal. Two tureens of soup: one smelled like chicken, the other fish chowder. Five different kinds of salads. A platter of cheeses. The sideboard was loaded with desserts, baked fudge and miniature cheesecakes and chocolate-dipped fruit. A silver serving cart held a frosty pitcher of iced tea and several crystal glasses. The room was full of people, loading plates with food, but they were all frozen in place, watching the tableau in the corner. Blair wasn't in the room. Jim sighed, wondering where his roommate had got to, then strode forward. "Is there a problem here?" he asked, directing his words to Rafe although his steely blue eyes never left his antagonist. 
> 
> "Yeah, there is!" Wheeler practically yelled. "What do you *mean* by asking all these questions about Jasmine? What business is it of yours? She's dead! Let her rest in peace." 
> 
> "As we haven't asked *you* anything yet, I'd be interested to know what kind of questions you think we're asking," Jim responded, calmly but his voice was cold. 
> 
> "I heard the type of questions you've been asking," the young man spat out. "Who was here, who was there.... what difference does it make? The girl hung herself. That's bad enough, why are you trying to say that we should have known something was going on?" 
> 
> Jim eyed him steadily. "Mr. Wheeler--I assume that's who you are-- why are you so sure that Jasmine Ronaya committed suicide?" 
> 
> The man fell back, a stunned expression on his face. "What--? she had to have... are you trying to say... it couldn't have been an accident!"
> 
> "No, it wasn't an accident," Jim agreed, his eyes never leaving Wheeler's face. He watched as the truth dawned on the young man. 
> 
> "Are you saying that she was... murdered?"
> 
> One of the girls--Jim couldn't tell which one--muttered, "Well, good morning Scott! Where the hell have you been?" 
> 
> Jim waited, then said, his words slow and measured, "The preliminary evidence strongly indicates that Ms. Ronaya was murdered." 
> 
> There was absolute silence in the room.
> 
> "No," Scott Wheeler whispered. Then, louder, "No!"
> 
> He looked around wildly. To Jim, it appeared as if he was staring accusingly at all and sundry. Then, so quickly that neither Jim nor Rafe could stop him, he bolted from the room. Seconds later they heard the slamming of a door. 
> 
> No one said anything. One of the girls giggled nervously. Judith and Cynthia both looked upset, Tony Giacomo looked perturbed. Claire Davis put her plate down. The *thump* as the plate contacted the table sound absurdly loud in the hush. 
> 
> "Well, I guess we know now who Jasmine's boyfriend was," she said, pouring herself a glass of iced tea. 
> 
> "What do you mean, Ms. Davis?" Jim asked alertly.
> 
> She shrugged. "It's awful to say, now that she's dead, but Detective, surely you've gathered Jasmine didn't much like any of us." 
> 
> "I've gathered none of you much liked her," Jim countered.
> 
> Another girl --'Tammy Cooper', Jim thought-- looked upset at his outspokenness. "I wouldn't say we disliked her, actually. It was more that she didn't like us." 
> 
> "Oh, come on," Claire drawled. "Tammy, you've been glaring at Jasmine ever since Blair came to live here. And I don't think he's interested in either one of you." 
> 
> Jim had to restrain a smile her words. The impulse vanished as he again realized how long it had been since he had seen his partner. He was opening his mouth to ask if anyone knew where Blair was when he was interrupted by his cell phone ringing again. Muttering a thousand curses on the head of Alexander Graham Bell, Jim pulled it from his pocket and barked his name. 
> 
> "Ellison, have you finished interviewing those people yet?"
> 
> "Almost," Jim answered, aware that he was the focus of everyone's attention. He stepped through the double doors into the short passageway that led to the kitchen. "What's going on?" 
> 
> "If Rafe can finish over there, I need you back here pronto. We have some new information about Marc McBerry's death." 
> 
> "*Marc* McBerry?" Jim questioned. "I don't understand--"
> 
> Simon cut him off. "I don't know all the details. Cassie Wells just called and she's not making a lot of sense. But apparently McBerry's death might *not* have been an accident." 
> 
> *** *** ***
> 
> Rafe did full justice to the lavish lunch spread, then invited Tammy Cooper to accompany him to Judith Elliott's office. 
> 
> He had no problem getting her to talk. Indeed, once her first shyness had worn off, she rattled on happily. The problem was trying to weed out useful information from the flood of gossip she released. Before fifteen minutes had elapsed, Rafe knew more about the personal habits of the house residents than he and Ellison had gleaned all morning, including Claire Thomas' longing for her philandering soon-to-be-ex-husband ("He's a doctor and he's worth BIG money, but he won't dish out more than a pittance to her.") He learned that Tony had a girlfriend somewhere who didn't know what he did for a living, that Judith Elliott slept with a picture of her dead husband underneath her pillow, and that "somebody" in the house did cocaine on a regular basis and was in deep to one of the city's less reputable "lending institutions". In vain, Rafe struggled to return the conversation to Jasmine Ronaya. "What was she like?" he asked for the third time. 
> 
> Tammy shrugged. "She was okay." She looked as if she was going to say more, then closed her mouth again. 
> 
> "You know, Ms. Cooper," Rafe said smoothly, "In this kind of situation someone like you is just the kind of witness we pray for." 
> 
> He waited. As he'd hoped, she swallowed the bait. "What do you mean?"
> 
> "Well, with all of these people living together, it's hard to get a grasp on personalities. You know. Who likes whom a lot, who doesn't like whomever.... someone like you, with a real feel for people... you're a Godsend to us." He could see she was buying it, so he went on, "You know, medical evidence aside, it's possible Jasmine could have killed herself. Would it surprise you if she had?" 
> 
> A moment of silence, then Tammy nodded her head. "I don't believe she'd kill herself," she said flatly. "Jasmine was only interested in Jasmine, Detective, and maybe in her mysterious boyfriend. She kissed up to Judy because she's the boss, but the rest of the women... she didn't even acknowledge we were around." 
> 
> "Women?" Rafe repeated alertly. "What about the men?" 
> 
> "Well, that was different. She made a play for all of them, oh, nothing really obvious, she just played the poor helpless female to the hilt. She had poor Bish dancing attendance on her, and even Tony babied her and took care of her. One time she lost her bankbook and she had all of the guys tearing the house apart looking for it while she cried and stood around wailing and wringing her hands. It finally turned up in her desk drawer... where I bet it had been all the time! She just wanted to make a fuss. She carried on about being all alone in a strange country.... her father is a diplomat, for Heaven's sake, and she grew up in Paris and London and New York. Like she couldn't figure out how to cope in Cascade?" 
> 
> "Now, that's interesting," Rafe purred. "What about the other girls? Did they see her the same way you did?" 
> 
> "Well, I don't know. I mean, I think Cynthia does... or did. She never let Jasmine get away with much, when Jasmine first came here she didn't want to make her bed or clean her own room and she kind of implied Cynthia should do it, as she was a 'servant'." Tammy laughed at the memory. "Cynthia put her in her place, but fast! Jasmine really didn't like Cynthia but she couldn't say too much because after all Cynthia is Judy's sister. But she--" 
> 
> A shrill scream tore through the house.
> 
> After a stunned moment, Rafe burst from the office and into the empty hallway. He heard the scream again, from the back of the house, and made his way there, Tammy on his heels. 
> 
> The two of them burst through the kitchen door. The room was empty but a narrow door in the corner was open. Rafe remembered the door from earlier in the day. At the time he'd assumed it was a pantry or a broom closet or something, but now, as he moved cautiously toward it, one hand resting on his gun, he realized it masked a narrow staircase leading down to the cellar. One dim lightbulb hung overhead. 
> 
> Cynthia Elliott was frozen halfway down the staircase, one hand tightly clutching the spindly railing, the other pressed tightly to her mouth as if to stop any further screams. Her horrified gaze was directed downwards. Gently Rafe moved her out of the way so he could see." 
> 
> "Damn!" The word was torn from him as his stunned eyes recognized the motionless body crumpled on the cold cement floor. 
> 
> Blair Sandburg didn't move.
> 
> *** *** ***
> 
> Jim fumed as he stormed into the office of the Chief of Forensics. "Okay, Welles, I'm here," he barked. "What's all this about?" 
> 
> Cassie wasn't alone. Simon Banks and two other men were there. Jim recognized them: Dominic Luca, who was Simon's counterpart in Robbery/Homicide, and Paul Cox from Internal Affairs, who had investigated the high-speed pursuit that had resulted in the death of Marc McBerry. The atmosphere in the room was charged. Cassie's cheeks were flushed and her eyes swollen as if she had been crying. 
> 
> "What's going on?" Jim repeated, looking from one to the other.
> 
> Cox held out a manila file folder. "Detective, I own you an apology."
> 
> "For what?" Jim asked. 
> 
> "The investigation into Marc McBerry's death should never have been turned over to IA. His death was not even remotely because of you." 
> 
> "Wait a minute, let me catch up here," Jim said. "I was the detective that went to arrest him, he rabbited and jumped in his car and I gave chase. He crashed--" 
> 
> "Well, not exactly," Luca said. He glared at Cassie. "Dr. Welles, would you like to chime in here?" 
> 
> Jim shifted his attention to the redhead, noticing almost absently how rapid her pulse was. "Welles?" he prodded. 
> 
> She looked anywhere but at him. "We just got the results back from the tests run on his car. He may not have rabbited at all, Jim. His car was sabotaged." 
> 
> "What?" Jim responded icily.
> 
> "It wasn't obvious!" Cassie said desperately. "The accelerator chain was weighted, once he'd reached a certain speed, his gas pedal would just stick to the floor." She went on, her words rushed, "It was deliberate, Jim, it had to be, there was no way it could have been a mechanical error, they actually found the weights still on the chain." 
> 
> "Who's they? Jim demanded. "Why are we just now finding this out? McBerry died a month ago!" 
> 
> Cassie flushed even more and looked down at the floor. Almost absently, she reached into her drawer for her asthma inhaler. Luca rolled his eyes and said acidly, "For some reason, Dr. Welles decided that the tests on McBerry's car should be shuffled out." 
> 
> 'Shuffled out' was a term coined by Cassie's predecessor, Jim's ex-wife Carolyn Plummer. The Cascade PD only had the one Forensics department to service six stations and twenty-four precincts. When they got bogged down, "routine" or "secondary" things were "shuffled off" to Seattle PD for analysis. Under no circumstances should the McBerry case have been considered either routine or secondary, as it involved a ongoing murder investigation as well as an Internal Affairs investigation of a Cascade detective. Obviously, from the withering looks the three higher-ups were giving Cassie, they were as aware of that little detail as Jim was.
> 
> Still, Jim frowned. "A month?" he questioned. "I thought the whole point of shuffling off was to speed things up. Is Seattle snowed under?" That didn't make a lot of sense, as the bigger city had four forensics labs as opposed to Cascade's one. 
> 
> "She didn't send it to Seattle," Simon said quietly. "She sent it to Seacouver." 
> 
> *Seacouver*? "That's over two hundred miles away! And it's smaller than Cascade," Jim blurted. 
> 
> "I have a schoolmate working there," Cassie said miserably. "She thought she could get right to it... only they had an outbreak of some weird decapitation murders and she got behind..." 
> 
> "Seacouver is *always* having decapitations," Luca growled. "It's like, the city pastime or something." 
> 
> As furious as he was with Cassie, Jim felt a tiny inkling of pity for her. In spite of her very irritating personality, Cassie took pride in her department and he imagined this was probably bad enough for her, even *without* the three captains glaring at her. He opened his mouth but whatever he would have said was interrupted by the shrill scream of his cellular phone. He groaned as he reached for it. 
> 
> Then, at the sound of Rafe's opening sentence, all thoughts of Cassie's problems fled from Jim's mind. 
> 
> "Jim... we found Blair. You need to meet us at Northside Medical Center. Jim, hurry!" 
> 
> Jim leapt from his truck and bolted through the automatic double doors below the "Emergency Entrance" sign. He found himself in a narrow hallway leading to another set of double doors. On his right, the hallway opened onto a big waiting room. Televisions sets mounted near the ceiling in two corners were turned to competing channels; the room was ringed with fiberglass scoop-bottom chairs in lemon and orange and dingy white. Racks and low tables held dog-eared magazines. The place smelled of alcohol and disinfectant and urine and sweat, so strongly that Jim momentarily felt he would retch. 
> 
> There were only a few people in the waiting room. A youngish woman with long auburn hair and black fingernail polish looked up at him, then back at the magazine in her lap. The petite blonde woman next to her was clutching her cigarette pack, obviously dying for a smoke in defiance on the plainly posted "Clean Air Policy". An elderly black man tirelessly rocked a sleeping infant. A large Plexiglas window was marked "Emergency Check In Here". Jim had just stepped toward it when the Men's Room door swung open and Rafe emerged. He altered his course to catch the other detective. "How is he?" he asked intently. 
> 
> Rafe nodded to a couple of seats next to the wall and guided Jim there. "I don't know. They wouldn't let me go back there with him and no one has come out yet." Obviously trying to ease Jim's torment, he said, "The paramedics didn't think he had any spinal cord injuries or broken bones, but, well, he didn't regain consciousness all the way here in the ambulance."
> 
> Jim sat down limply. "What the hell happened to him?"
> 
> Rafe shook his head. "All I know is what I told you on the phone. Cynthia Elliott started to go into the cellar for something--I never did figure out why--and she saw Blair at the foot of the stairs. I guess he fell, or was pushed." 
> 
> Jim eyed the other detective. "Which one is it?"
> 
> "I don't know," Rafe admitted. "There are a couple of storage rooms down there, one of the girls said Blair had stored some stuff down there, or was going to, or something. The stairs are pretty steep. He *could* have fallen. Only--" Rafe broke off and looked doubtful. 
> 
> "What?" Jim pressed.
> 
> "Well, he had... has, some kind of wound on the back of his head, right about here." Rafe put his hand to the back of his own head. "The paramedics didn't seem to think he would have gotten it from hitting his head on the stairs or the floor as he fell." 
> 
> Jim stood up abruptly and strode to the window. Yanking out his badge, he rapped sharply on the Plexiglas and waited for the clerk to open it before he said, "I'm Detective Ellison and my partner, Blair Sandburg, was brought here by ambulance. How is he?" 
> 
> The clerk--she looked to be in her mid twenties and of Hispanic descent--pointed back at the waiting room. "Just have a seat and someone will be out to talk to you." 
> 
> "How. Is. He?" Jim thundered.
> 
> "I. Don't. Know." The clerk expertly matched Jim's tone. "Just have a seat and I'll let the doctor know you're here." 
> 
> "Can I go back there with him?"
> 
> "That's against hospital policy. Just have a seat, Detective," the clerk said again. "Someone should be out here shortly." She slid the window shut with a bang. 
> 
> Not knowing what else to do, Jim eyed the double doors, but they were closed and there was no way to get in unless the clerk activated the button that opened them. He returned to Rafe, noticing that the two women were giving him sympathetic looks. "Don't mind Patti," the auburn-haired women said. 
> 
> "Patti?" Jim echoed.
> 
> The women jerked her thumb at the clerk. "She doesn't open those doors without a damn good reason." 
> 
> "You know her?" Jim didn't much care about the answer but at least the conversation diverted his mind from Blair for just a second. 
> 
> The blonde women laughed humorlessly. "We've been here a lot lately."
> 
> Just then, the outside doors flew open and a wild-eyed women in her mid-thirties whirled in. She caught sight of the two women and flew over to them. "What *happened*?" she all but shrieked. 
> 
> The auburn-haired woman winced; the blonde one said, "Now, Dana, calm down--" That was all she had the chance to get out. The newcomer whirled around and covered the distance to the clerk's window in three long strides. "I'm Dana Adams and you have my daughter Michelle back there." Her voice was shaking and her hands clenched. The clerk didn't say a word, just hit the button. With a muffled *beep* the doors opened and the woman raced through, not sparing a glance for anyone else. 
> 
> Jim's mouth dropped open. "I thought you said she wouldn't let anybody back there without a damn good reason!" 
> 
> The auburn-haired women laughed a little bit. "Dana Adams *is* a damn good reason! You *don't* want to be between that woman and her kid. I should know, I've been on the receiving end of her tongue lashing enough times." She sobered instantly. "And I probably will be again before the night is through." 
> 
> "We *both* will be," the blonde muttered.
> 
> Just then, the clerk tapped on her window and pointed at Jim. When he approached her, she slid the window aside and said, "Dr. Manzelmann is treating Mr. Sandburg and she said it's okay if you go back." She pressed the button to open the doors again. "Mr. Sandburg is in Trauma 12\. Just turn right past the doors, go all the way to the end of the hall and turn left." 
> 
> *** *** ***
> 
> Dr. Manzelmann turned out to be a woman with long brown hair pulled back into an untidy ponytail and a rumpled white lab coat over wilted green scrubs. Despite her disheveled appearance that spoke of a long duty day, her eyes were bright and slightly amused as she introduced herself to Jim and said, "My patient, that is, Mr. Sandburg, seemed to think that you would tear the doors down if we didn't let you back here." 
> 
> "You mean he's awake?" Jim demanded, relief sweeping though him making him weak in the knees. 
> 
> The doctor's smiled faded a bit. "Well, not right now. He regained consciousness for a few minutes and was very insistent that you be allowed in here." She nodded her head at the curtained-off cubicle. "Now, I'll make a deal with you, you can stay here with him as long as you stay out of the way and step out when we ask you to. That's fair, isn't it?"
> 
> From experience with hospital emergency rooms, Jim knew that it was more than fair. He nodded. "But how is he? Is he going to be all right?"
> 
> "So far everything is looking pretty good. No broken bones, no spinal cord injuries. No internal bleeding. He does have one hell of a concussion," the doctor added dryly. "We're going to be sending him for a full skull series and a CT scan in a few minutes." She hesitated. "He referred to you as his 'partner', but then he told me he was a grad student at the University. Is he talking about life partner or--" 
> 
> "He's a civilian consultant to the police department." By now, Jim could deliver that line without even a thought. "He was working undercover when he got hurt. But he's also my roommate and my best friend. He's family, Doctor; I want the straight story." 
> 
> The woman nodded. "We'll know more after the CT scan. But Detective, I have to tell you, it's extremely unlikely Mr. Sandburg would have received the kind of head injury he has by falling down a flight of stairs. Offhand, I'd say he was bashed over the head with a heavy object." 
> 
> *** *** ***
> 
> Jim pulled the curtain aside and stepped into the cubicle, going immediately to the exam bed. Blair lay covered by a sheet and blanket, a large padded dressing on his head. His hair was greasy with ointment and Jim grinned, imagining how his roommate would react to *that*. 
> 
> The grin faded as he looked into the pale face, mottled with marks that would soon turn into livid bruises. Blair lay so still that Jim had to fight the desire to shake him. He took a deep breath and glanced at the portable monitor tracking Blair's vital signs, then looked back at his roommate and opened his senses, doing his own catalogue. The rhythmic thumping of Blair's heartbeat filled his ears, bringing with it the message of life. Jim shuddered inwardly as he thought how easily it could have been silenced forever. Looking down at the still face, he marveled again at how this young man had come to mean so much to him. 
> 
> Their relationship had almost ended before it began. Torn and confused by senses out of control, Jim had been in no mood to listen to the long-haired refugee from an ashram who had appeared in his hospital room, handed him a card, and then disappeared, all in the matter of minutes. He was even less likely to listen when arrived at the university and recognized Sandburg as the guy from the hospital. He'd slammed the younger man up against a wall (Jim still squirmed when he thought of that) and stormed out, only to zone out at the sight of a spinning Frisbee. Risking his own life, Blair had shoved him out of the path of a garbage truck. The first time he'd risked his life for Jim, but not the last. 
> 
> A slight moan aroused him from his reverie. Concerned, he slid onto the rolling stool next to the bed and gripped Blair's hand a little more tightly. "Chief? Can you hear me?" 
> 
> Heavy eyelids fought to rise over glazed blue eyes. The eyes stared at him blankly for a moment (the longest in Jim's life as his imagination painted all sorts of scenarios about Blair having brain damage or amnesia or something) then a spark of recognition leapt into them. Lips moved, forming a word which Jim couldn't hear even with Sentinel hearing. He didn't need to hear it. He knew Blair had whispered his name. "Yeah, Chief, it's me. You're going to be fine, Sandburg. You're in the hospital," he added as the eyes flickered around the room and widened in alarm. "Rafe found you at the bottom of the basement stairs. You managed to give that hard head of yours a concussion." 
> 
> "did...I fall...?" Slightly louder this time but still barely a thread of sound. 
> 
> Jim hesitated. He didn't want to possibly give Blair any false memories, but he could tell the kid was in no shape for any kind of questioning now. Already his eyelids were fighting the battle to stay open. "Something like that," he said finally. He gripped Blair's shoulder reassuringly. "Go back to sleep, Chief. I'll be here when you wake up again." 
> 
> *** **** ***
> 
> **[Concluded in Part Three...](suekelley4c.htm) **
> 
> * * *


	3. Some Enchanted Evening (part three), by Sue Kelley

> [](../index.html)[New](../newarrivals.htm) Arrivals   
> [Author-Sue Kelley](../authors/auth-suekelley.htm)   
> [Titles](../titles/titlesa.htm)  
> 
> 
> Some Enchanted Evening  
> Part Three  
>  **by Sue Kelley**
> 
> See notes and disclaimer in [part one](suekelley4a.htm).
> 
> Hospital staff moved Blair upstairs about an hour later. By that time the ER was getting a lot more activity. Almost all the cubicles were filled and Jim had to struggle to keep his senses from being overwhelmed by the stimuli. As he followed the nurse and orderly pushing Blair's bed, another nurse slipped from behind a curtain leaving it ajar. A woman was bent awkwardly over the bed, cradling the occupant and blocking Jim's view. He recognized her as the woman from the waiting room--Dana Adams. A man was in the cubicle with her, talking to her. Jim frowned. Something bothered him about the man, like he should recognize him or something... but then he realized he'd lagged behind and the two with Blair's stretcher were already at the big elevators, waiting for him.
> 
> They vacuumed up to the sixth floor and pushed Blair down to a room on the East side, overlooking Swan Lake Park across the street. Working crisply, efficiently, the nurse and the orderly transferred Blair into the bed already in the room, hung the IV from a pole in the corner, slipped a tube into his nose and adjusted oxygen from the wall spigot. Another nurse came in and introduced herself as Paula Gray, the head nurse for the floor. She gently but firmly told Jim to leave while they got Blair settled, suggesting he go down to the cafeteria for something to eat. Jim negated that idea, preferring to haunt the hallway until they allowed him back to his partner's side. 
> 
> *** *** ***
> 
> Jim roused at a slight knock on the door. Rubbing a hand tiredly over his face--his eyes felt like they had thousands of grains of sand in them--he called, "Come in." 
> 
> Simon Banks entered the room, glancing at Blair with concern and then at Ellison. "I'm not sure which one of you looks worse," he commented, sinking down onto the loveseat in the corner. Jim knew it converted to a bed. A nurse had already been in to ask him if he would be spending the night and had volunteered to bring him sheets and a blanket for it when he said he would be. At the moment, though, he sat close by Blair's side in the straight-backed chair. Simon nodded toward the still figure in the bed. "How is he?" 
> 
> "He woke up for a few minutes down in the ER. He knew me," Jim answered. "And he figured out pretty quickly where he was. There don't seem to be any broken bones, which is something pretty close to a miracle, but everything's really bruised and he's going to be damned uncomfortable for awhile." Jim sighed. "The head injury is the worst of it. It's a pretty bad concussion. There's no way of knowing now just how much damage was done. The doctor wants to do another scan in the morning sometime." Jim glanced at his watch, stunned to realize it was almost midnight. "Shit," he sighed, the rare obscenity leaving his mouth before he was even aware of it. "I forgot all about Rafe. He's not still sitting down in ER, is he?" 
> 
> Simon shook his head. "No. After you went in with Sandburg, he came on back to the house. He and I and Brown have been there almost the whole time, taking statements." The captain rolled his eyes. "I've never seen a place like that! A house full of witnesses and no one ever sees anything! By their own stories, someone was in the kitchen or in the dining room with a view of the basement door almost constantly from the time Sandburg went to his room until... until he was found. But either no one saw him or a bunch of people are in it together, because they all alibi each other." 
> 
> Jim stared at him. "They may be providing alibis for each other, but we can knock holes in that. I mean, the person who was in the kitchen the most was Cynthia Elliot, I assume. And who alibis her? Bish? Her sister? Either one of whom would lie for her if they had to." 
> 
> Banks shook his head again. "I don't agree with you there. At least about Bish. I talked to him quite a while today... he seems very upset about Sandburg being hurt and I'd stake my reputation that he's sincere."
> 
> "He's retarded, Simon!"
> 
> "So? That doesn't mean he doesn't have feelings, or principles. Actually, he strikes me as having a pretty strict moral code. Anyway, why would Cynthia Elliott want to kill Blair? Because I'm assuming this was an attempt on his life. The second one, if we believe Cassie that there was enough chloral hydrate in that souffl to kill." 
> 
> "Well, Cynthia is the most likely to poison the souffl, too," Jim pointed out. "She made it. I'm not saying she did it, Simon, I'm just saying she could have." 
> 
> "Maybe. The chloral hydrate, yes.... but Jim, I don't see any way that woman could have dragged Blair, unconscious, into the basement. And if she'd tried to shove him down the stairs there's a good chance she'd have tumbled right on top of him." 
> 
> Jim stared at him. "What are you talking about? Sandburg doesn't weigh that much, you know." 
> 
> Simon sighed again. "He doesn't weigh that much to you or to me, maybe, but to Cynthia Elliott? My God, Jim, didn't you even look at the woman?"
> 
> Jim had the feeling he was missing something. "She looks robust enough."
> 
> "Jim! The woman may be a little plump, but she has toothpicks for bones. Besides, although she was in the kitchen most of the day, someone else was always there too. Tammy Cooper." He frowned at his notes. "Tommy... maybe? No, Tony. Tony Giacomo. He was there most of the morning too, helping Cynthia get ready for this wedding or whatever she was catering for. Then Ty Nelson went in several times for something to settle his stomach, somebody else went in and made lemonade.... helped with lunch..." Simon slammed his notebook shut in disgust. "Sounds like the kitchen was Grand Central Station all day! Whether Blair went down there on his own--and that's not impossible, he has some boxes stored down there--or whether someone put him down there, I don't know when it could have happened."
> 
> Jim clenched his jaw at the mention of boxes in storage. 'Not for much longer, he promised himself. He is not going back to that place, I won't let him. He's coming back to the loft where he belongs, to hell with undercover assignments..'. A though occurred to him and he spoke quickly. "That's an old house. Maybe there's another entrance to the cellar."
> 
> "If there is, it's a hidden one. We didn't find any sign of it. The cellar isn't that big, it's only under the kitchen." Simon noted Jim's sudden abstraction. "What's wrong?" 
> 
> Jim swung back to the bed to look at Blair. His heartrate and pulse had increased slightly and for a moment Jim hoped he was waking up again. Then he noted the tiny twitches of Blair's eyelids, the infinitesimal movements that indicated his eyeballs were moving rapidly back and forth, and he relaxed. "I thought he was waking up, but I guess he's just dreaming."
> 
> ~~~Blair stumbled in blackness, cold and alone. 
> 
> No, *he* wasn't the one stumbling. He wasn't even walking, was he? He tried to force his eyelids open and realized he was hanging head- down over someone's shoulder. The labored breathing he could hear wasn't his own. 
> 
> The crushing pain in his skull almost overwhelmed him and he felt sick, closing his eyes again. The jerky movements forward stopped and he heard a scrabbling, then a squealing sound. A rush of displaced air hit him in the face and he inhaled, almost gagging on the musty odor. 
> 
> He was swinging down now, being propped up on his feet, turned roughly. A voice--a man's voice--someone he knew-- said, "Sorry, Blair, but this is the way it has to be." 
> 
> Then a hard shove against his back. He was suspended for one frozen second, his mind shrieking that he was in terrible danger, that he had to get away. Then he felt nothingness in front of him and behind him and he started to fall. 
> 
> Pain blasted through his ribs, his arm, his shoulder as he contacted something hard. Then he was rolling, tumbling head over heels downward, coming to rest on a hard, cold surface. Waves of black and red and yellow rose up before him, swallowing him. 
> 
> Someone was dragging him, leaning over him. He could feel fingers pressing into the side of his neck, hear an angry grunt. "Still alive, huh? Guess that fall didn't bread your neck. You're tougher than you look, but by the time anyone finds you..." 
> 
> Blair forced his eyes open again. There was just a little light, enough that he could see the figure standing over him and pair it up with the voice in his mind.~~~~~ 
> 
> His eyes snapped open.
> 
> "Chief?" Jim leaned over him, lines of tension marking his forehead. "Easy, Sandburg, you're okay." 
> 
> Blair ran his tongue around his dry mouth. He had to force out words. He had to! Jim seemed to read his mind and he reached out, his hand returning with a yellow plastic cup. There was a straw in it and he angled it to his roommate's lips. Blair drank eagerly. The water was tepid but it was wet. Fixing his eyes on his roommate's face, willing him to understand, he whispered the name of his attacker. 
> 
> Then the blackness rose up again and swirled around him and he surrendered to it, letting it pull him away from the pain. 
> 
> *** **** ***
> 
> Jim straightened up. Simon saw the confusion on his face quickly changing to anger--no, deeper than anger--blood rage. "Jim? What is it? What did he say?" 
> 
> Jim stared at his commanding officer. "He knows who hurt him. He said, 'Scott. Scott did it.'" 
> 
> "Scott Wheeler!"
> 
> **** *** ***
> 
> Traffic was light once they'd cleared the business district surrounding the hospital and they made good time, taking the Loop northwest to the exclusive suburb where Judith Elliott resided. Jim drove, at his insistence, with Simon silent in the seat next to him. 
> 
> As they neared the house, Simon finally broke the oppressive silence. "Jim, we do this by the book." 
> 
> "What is that supposed to mean?" Jim flared.
> 
> "You know what I'm talking about. This case got personal for you when Blair went undercover, and right now-- with him hurt-- we're talking *real* personal. If you can't put that aside during the interrogation of this witness--that's *witness*, Jim, not suspect yet-- then drop me off and pick me up in an hour." 
> 
> "If Sandburg says he's the one that did it, he is," Jim said flatly.
> 
> Simon sighed. "Jim, Blair has a severe concussion and was only half-conscious. You know what a good defense attorney could do with that?" 
> 
> Jim wasn't listening, his attention focused up the street, where a white pickup had just pulled out of Judith Elliott's driveway. "Simon!" he exclaimed. "That's him!" 
> 
> "Are you sure?" Simon demanded, gripping the armrest as Jim slapped the bubble onto the dashboard and accelerated after the pickup. 
> 
> Jim didn't answer, being grimly concerned with getting as close to the white truck as he could. "Damn! A white pickup!" he exclaimed. 
> 
> "Huh?" Simon said, closing his eyes as Jim turned a corner on two wheels.
> 
> "The other night when Sandburg came over, he said he'd been followed by a white pickup! Damn, I blew him off, didn't think anything about it!" Jim clenched his jaw a little tighter and floored the gas pedal just as the pickup in front braked and then swung into a wide turn, bearing directly upon Jim's truck. 
> 
> "What does that idiot think he's doing?" Simon yelled as Jim braked, shooting over the curb and into someone's pansies. With a horrible screech of metal and clods of dirt and dismembered pansies flying through the air, they were back in hot pursuit. 
> 
> "He's heading toward the waterfront," Jim recognized grimly.
> 
> Simon grabbed the radio, broadcasting their position and ordering roadblocks to be set up. Wheeler's pickup, with Jim's right behind, raced up Hill street, turned right sharply, then barreled full tilt toward the beach.
> 
> "Damn, he's not going to make the turn," Simon breathed.
> 
> At the last possible second, the driver of the pickup smashed on his brakes, yanking the wheel all the way to the left. Jim yanked his truck as far to the other side as he could, watching in horror as the white pickup fishtailed, hit an embankment and rolled over onto it's top, smashing into a fire plug. A column of water geysered fifty feet into the air.
> 
> Nightmarish memories of the chase that had killed Marc McBerry danced in front of Jim's eyes, superimposed upon the scene he was actually seeing as he bolted from the truck and over to the smashed pickup. He leaned into the driver's window. Scott Wheeler, bleeding from his nose and a cut over one eyelid, whimpered as Jim hauled him from the vehicle.
> 
> With grim satisfaction, Jim dragged the man several feet away from the wreck, then forced him to his knees, pulling his arms behind his back. "Scott Wheeler, I'm placing you under arrest," he said, hearing the sirens of approaching emergency vehicles. "You have the right to remain silent..."
> 
> *** *** ****
> 
> "But I don't understand," Blair said softly, his eyes closed. "Why would Scott want to kill Angela McBerry? Or Marc? Or me, for that matter?"
> 
> It was early afternoon. After having spent a large chunk of the night before chasing, booking, questioning and processing paperwork on Scott Wheeler, Jim had headed home for a few hours of badly-needed sleep. Waking later than he'd intended, he'd quickly showered, grabbed an apple and returned to the hospital. 
> 
> Jim stretched his long legs out and leaned back, trying to make himself as comfortable as possible in the straight-backed chair. "I'm not sure he *did* kill either one of the McBerry's," he yawned. "But as far as you're concerned, I imagine he thought you might know something about him and Jasmine Ronaya. We found notes from her in his room. Seems clear that they'd been involved--she was crazy about him. Since he's not talking, except to demand pain meds and his lawyer, we don't know how he felt about her but I'd be willing to bet my next pay check that he was just stringing her along, using her to get money from Judith Elliott."
> 
> "Was he badly hurt in the crash?" Blair asked, his eyes still closed.
> 
> Jim looked at his partner sharply, noticing the sudden spike of his heartbeat. Then the cause dawned on him and he patted Blair's arm reassuringly. "He's not here in the hospital, Chief, if that's worrying you. He was treated in the ER last night but two officers were with him at all times. He's safely cooling his heels in the downtown jail now." He changed the subject. "So, how are you feeling?" 
> 
> "I'm okay," Blair answered, too quickly. He still hadn't opened his eyes and Jim frowned. 
> 
> "I'm not convinced," he said dryly. "Come on, Chief, tell the truth here." 
> 
> Silence.
> 
> Jim frowned in earnest now, although it couldn't make much of an impression on his roommate when his eyes were closed. "Sandburg," he growled warningly.
> 
> The door opened and Simon Banks stepped in. Seeing the grim expression on his face, Jim momentarily disregarded his partner's medical condition and demanded, "What's wrong?" 
> 
> Simon glanced over the bed, then met Jim's gaze reluctantly. "Scott Wheeler is dead." 
> 
> "Dead!" Jim exclaimed, half noticing as Blair opened his eyes, grimaced, then hastily shut them again. "What happened? He's supposed to be in jail!" 
> 
> "We don't know what happened. He was alive when the lunch trays were delivered; twenty minutes later he was dead. No marks, nobody heard him yell or ask for help. The trustee that took him his lunch tray said Wheeler kind of pushed it away, like he didn't have an appetite, but didn't say anything about not feeling well." 
> 
> Jim frowned. "You think he was poisoned?"
> 
> Simon shrugged. "I don't know. Forensics didn't have any ideas right off the bat. His lunch tray was untouched, the cover hadn't even been removed, so if it was poison, it had to be administered some other way."
> 
> Exhaustion swept over Jim, so suddenly and completely he had to sit down heavily in the chair. He had thought this case was over, and now, suddenly, with the death of Scott Wheeler it was alive again. 
> 
> Simon noticed his exhaustion. "Jim, why don't you let me take you home? You probably haven't eaten today, and you need some rest." 
> 
> "Good idea," seconded Blair from the bed. His forehead was furrowed by lines, but Jim couldn't tell if they were put there by pain or concern over the news Simon had just brought or both. 
> 
> Jim shifted his attention back to his captain. "Who's on the investigation of Wheeler murder?" he asked briskly. 
> 
> "Well, at the moment we don't even know if it *was* murder," Simon pointed out. At Jim's disbelieving stare, he added, "As far fetched as it sounds, until we get the preliminary report back from the ME, we *could* be looking at a death by natural causes." 
> 
> "With highly unnatural timing," Jim said sarcastically. 
> 
> *** *** ***
> 
> The sound of his friend's voices wavered in and out. Blair kept as still as he could, eyes tightly closed, trying to ignore the feeling that the room was spinning and whirling around him. 'You're okay', he told himself firmly. 'You aren't going to fall off the bed...'. 
> 
> He risked opening his eyes a bit and them shut them tightly again as the room looped again. He could hear Jim and Simon, but distantly, like angry bees buzzing around a fruit tree. 
> 
> Bile rose in his throat and he forced himself to swallow. Unthinkingly, he sent his hand--the one that wasn't immobilized by IVs--searching for something to hold on to. 
> 
> Something warm and firm grasped it.
> 
> "Sandburg?" Jim's voice, closer again and sounding very worried. "Chief, what's wrong? Come on, buddy, open your eyes." 
> 
> Blair risked shaking his head a bit. "Can't," he croaked out through the waves of nausea. 
> 
> "Why not?"
> 
> Blair's fingers curled tightly around the secure hold they'd found. Jim's hand, he realized belatedly. "Jim," he whispered. "I think maybe you'd... better call the nurse. I'm feeling...really strange here. Like maybe I'm going to.... pass out." 
> 
> There was a brief silence, then the rush of feet on polished linoleum and a rush of displaced air as the door was thrown open. Jim's hand still gripped his tightly; Jim's voice was in his ear, low and intent. "Chief, does your head hurt?" 
> 
> Blair managed to shake it again. "No, I mean, yes, but not too bad. Jim... the room, it won't hold still..." he gasped as the roaring in his ears rose again, blocking out the sound of his own voice, of Jim's. Nausea twisted his stomach again but the blackness enveloped him, swirled around and drew him away.... 
> 
> *** *** ****
> 
> Jim Ellison paced from one end of the waiting room to the other, pausing at one of the long, tinted-glass windows that looked over the Sound, shimmering in the late-afternoon sunlight. 
> 
> He swung back around and surveyed the large room, almost empty right now. Large, shapeless sofas and chairs in bright yellow, orange and green. The carpet was a busy pattern of green vines twirling around a yellowish background; the motif mirrored in the murals on two walls and the framed posters on the others. Three television, mounted near the ceiling, were tuned to three competing stations: a local station showing "Jerry Springer"; the House and Garden channel with a show about weird collections; and, on the center TV, tuned to CNN, a famous commentator droned endlessly about the latest political scandal. Not that anyone was watching any of the programs; two small children played some game in the corner, watched by an older relative. A middle-aged woman knitted feverishly and something in brown and red. A young couple comforted an older man. 
> 
> The scent of his cigars and his familiar step preceded Simon Banks as he entered the room. Looking around for a second, he spotted Jim and headed toward him. "Any word?" the Captain of Major Crimes asked anxiously.
> 
> Jim shook his head, once, abruptly. "They're still running tests. A MRI, CT scan.... God knows what else." He stared unseeingly at Jerry Springer. "This is my fault, Simon." 
> 
> His captain obviously restrained a sigh. "It is not, Jim," he said patiently. "Blair was doing a job--" 
> 
> "He was doing *my* job!" Jim snarled. "Not his. He is not a cop, Simon! Aren't you the one that is always saying that? He should never have been undercover there in the first place." 
> 
> "Granted," Simon agreed quietly. "But Jim, that was his call, you know. He'd made that decision and set things up before you or I knew what was going on. He was trying to prove something, Jim." 
> 
> "Prove what? To whom? He doesn't *have* to prove anything to me--"
> 
> "Doesn't he? Jim, that kid tries to prove to you every day that you didn't make a mistake when you decided to let him tag along--" 
> 
> "Tag along!" Jim exploded, leaping to his feet. The two children playing in the corner looked up, eyes large and frightened, and he forced himself calm down, to sit down again. "Simon, he saved my life. More than once. And he sure saved my sanity! If anybody's obligated, it's me to him, not the other way around." 
> 
> "I know that," Simon said quietly. "You know that.... but neither one of us ever tells *him*. Besides, it wasn't you I was talking about. The kid was trying to prove something to that student, the one that was murdered.... Cami. Trying to make sure her death meant something." 
> 
> Jim snorted. "Maybe so," he agreed reluctantly. "But I have to wonder if death ever means anything." After a long silence, when the two children finally stopped staring at him and returned to their play, he asked, "Anything new in the Wheeler investigation?" 
> 
> "Preliminary autopsy is back. He was drugged, Jim, or poisoned, actually. Some long, chemical name like polydemodene. That's not it," Simon frowned, "But it's something like that." 
> 
> "Where would he have got hold of that?"
> 
> "I have no idea. The effects can be delayed up to twenty- four hours, according to Cassie; so he could have got it before the crash, or here at the hospital, or even once he got to the jail. The ER discharged him with a packet of pain pills but Cassie checked them out and they were exactly what they were supposed to be, just a mild pain killer. Anaprox, I think she said." 
> 
> Just then a cheerful looking young man in a white lab coat entered the room. He looked around for a few seconds, then walked unerringly over to Jim. "Detective Ellison? I'm Dr. Rudy, the neurologist on call. I've been treating Mr. Sandburg." 
> 
> Jim shot to his feet. "How is he? Is he okay?" he demanded anxiously.
> 
> "Well, he's not exactly okay, but I can almost guarantee he's better than you think he is," the doctor said dryly as he sat opposite Simon on a backless orange chair. He eyed the other man and Jim introduced them, sitting back down and rubbing his palms on his khaki slacks. 
> 
> "Mr. Sandburg--Blair-- has some intercranial swelling," the doctor started. "It's not than unusual, in this type of injury. It is localized in one particular area, is why he has the overwhelming dizziness and vertigo."
> 
> "Does this mean surgery?" Jim asked, feeling his face drain at the mere thought. 
> 
> "I doubt it. As I said, swelling isn't that uncommon in this type of injury. Blair is uncomfortable, but there's nothing life-threatening going on. He's going to have to remain very quiet and still until the swelling goes down, but there is not reason to suspect he won't make a full recovery. As a matter of fact, he's regained consciousness and seems quite coherent." 
> 
> Simon snorted with relief of tension. "Sandburg coherent? There *must* be something wrong with him. 
> 
> Jim managed a smile, then asked, "How do you treat this swelling?" 
> 
> "We've started him on some steroids and other medications to reduce it," Rudy answered promptly. "Also, as I said he needs to remain very quiet and still, with his head flat, level to his heart. I've ordered some pretty heavy-sedation for the next few days--he'll be drifting in and out." He paused, studying the distraught detective in front of him. "He sent you a message, Detective, and seemed most insistent that I give it to you. He wants you to go home, have a good dinner and a full night's sleep before you come back in the morning." 
> 
> Jim was shaking his head before the doctor had even finished speaking. "I want to see him. I need to see him!" 
> 
> He sighed. "He said you'd probably be difficult about this." The momentary amusement vanished. "Now, look, Detective Ellison. I understand you are worried about your friend. But you hovering here isn't going to help him and it might make things worse. He must remain still and quiet. From what I can tell of the young man, that's going to be hard enough for him without worrying about you being in the room all night." 
> 
> In spite of himself, in spite of the gut-need he had to be near his Guide, Jim had to admit the doctor made sense. He nodded grudgingly. "But I could sleep out here--" 
> 
> "Yes, you could. And if you choose to do that I won't try to stop you. But why, Detective? You need rest, too. And these sofas aren't *that* comfortable." 
> 
> Jim hesitated, then agreed. "Can I see him before I leave?"
> 
> "Not for a little while, we're getting him settled back in his room... why don't you go downstairs for something to eat? Jokes about hospital food aside, our cafeteria is really quite good. Have some dinner, then you can see Mr. Sandburg for a few minutes." 
> 
> *** *** ***
> 
> "He's right, you know," Simon commented as they hefted their well-filled trays and looked around the crowded cafeteria for somewhere to sit. 
> 
> Jim just grunted wordlessly as he weaved among tables crowded with anxious family members and harried medical staffers. He finally stopped at a small table hidden behind a planter of foliage. After he'd sat down, he said, "I know he's right, I just don't like leaving Sandburg unguarded. We don't know who killed Wheeler. What if that person comes after Sandburg?"
> 
> "Why should they?" Simon countered. "Anyway, I've arranged for there to be a guard on Blair's door." 
> 
> Jim took a bite of his beef tips, pleasantly surprised at how good it tasted. "I just--" then he dropped his fork and looked up sharply, his features narrowing with concentration. 
> 
> "Jim, what is it?" Simon reached across the table and jostled Jim's elbow. "Jim!" 
> 
> "Simon, I smell it!"
> 
> "Smell what?"
> 
> "That scent, the scent at the crime scenes... it's here!"
> 
> "What?" Simon exclaimed, looking wildly around, like he expected a knife-wielding maniac to appear from nowhere. 
> 
> Jim ignored him, trying to piggyback sight to smell. It had always been difficult for him to link those two particular senses together; it was easier to link sound and sight, but he could usually manage it if Sandburg was around. Blair wasn't though, and he had to struggle to keep from zoning. Apparently sensing the difficulty he was having, Simon put a supportive hand on his arm but that didn't really help much; Jim's sense of touch rebelled at the pressure. 
> 
> It took several minutes, but finally Jim could identify where the scent was coming from. A man and a woman, sitting at a table at the far end of the cafeteria. The woman looked faintly familiar and after a minute's thought, Jim recognized her as the woman who's daughter had been admitted to ER the same night Blair had been. Donna... no, Dana Adams. 
> 
> He tried to piggyback his hearing, as well, and to his frustration couldn't manage it. He surged up from his seat, barely aware of Simon's hissed "Ellison, what the hell are you doing?" behind him as he strode through the crowded room until he reached the table. "Ms. Adams? Dana?" he asked politely, 
> 
> He'd expected anything but the reaction he got. "Well, hello!" The woman's drawn face brightened in a pleased smile; she extended her hand to him. "It's so good of you to come over." 
> 
> "My pleasure," Jim responded, sitting down in the seat she indicated and studying the man she was with. He was as tall as Jim and heavier, almost portly, with a very broad chest. A full head of silvering black hair over smallish green eyes. Jim noted that the navy blue suit he was wearing was beautifully and expensively tailored. 
> 
> There was an awkward silence. Dana Adams made no move to introduce her companion. After a few seconds the man stood up. "Dana, I'll speak with you later. Mind you get some rest now." He had a very upper-crust British accent. "I'll just check on Michelle and then be heading home."
> 
> "Thank you, Dr. Davis," she murmured. 
> 
> Nodding his head at Jim in place of a greeting, the man strode away. Jim tracked him with his eyes, noticing Simon inconspicuously sliding from his seat to follow. Jim took one last deep sniff--'maybe some kind of after shave'--he decided. 'Or cologne--' then he turned back to the woman. 
> 
> She was blushing. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "It just seemed like the perfect opportunity to get rid of him. Thanks for playing along." She glanced up at Jim through thick lashes. "How do you know my name? Have we met?" 
> 
> "No, not really," Jim said easily. "Your daughter was in ER the same time my partner was admitted. I just wanted to ask how she was doing."
> 
> "Oh. How... kind of you. Michelle is... better. She's still not out of the woods, but her breathing is much easier." Dana Adams glanced at her watch. "I should be getting back to her, but I--" she stopped and looked down, blushing even more. 
> 
> Jim recalled what the man had said about checking on Michelle and surmised Dana Adams was trying to avoid running into him again. He jumped at the chance to get some information. "Who was that guy, anyway?' 
> 
> She looked surprised. "You didn't know? That's Dr. Carey Davis. I'm sure you've seen him, he's always on the news talking about air quality and he's the spokesman for the Asthmatic Children's Foundation. He's Michelle's doctor." 
> 
> Jim studied her. "You don't like him," he surmised shrewdly.
> 
> "No... it's not that I don't like him. He's a wonderful doctor, he's saved Michelle time and time again. She has COPD, you know--chronic obstructive pulmonary disease--in addition to her other problems. He's fantastic with her." 
> 
> "But--" Jim prompted.
> 
> "Well, he has this idea. He wants to build a hospital here in Cascade, specifically for children with respiratory problems. He went to the City Planners last year." 
> 
> Jim frowned, remembering. "They denied him funding."
> 
> She nodded. "Yes. The said that Cascade desperately needs another hospital, that all funds need to go toward that, not another *specialty* hospital. So since then he's trying to raise the funds privately. He really wants me to invest... he's become very insistent about it." She rubbed tired eyes. "Only-- the money he wants me to invest is really Michelle's. My grandfather placed it in trust for her. And her medical bills alone were over one hundred thousand dollars last year. Insurance pays a lot--but then there're salaries for her nurses at home, and therapy, medical supplies.... and she's only twelve. I just don't feel as if I can risk that money."
> 
> "Did you say his name was Davis?" Jim asked suddenly, something snapping together in his brain. "I think I've met his ex-wife." 
> 
> Dana Adams looked surprised. "You mean Claire? But they're not divorced."
> 
> "Are you sure?" Jim asked sharply.
> 
> "Well, of course. Oh, I heard some rumor that they were separating, but I don't believe it. I wouldn't put it past him to let that story circulate so he could get more money out of people. He was really stringing along that poor Angela McBerry. You know, the one that was murdered a few months ago? She and my grandfather were old friends, but he always said she was a fool for a good-looking man." Dana added acidly, reaching for her water glass. "As a matter of fact, I saw Dr. Davis and Claire having dinner together just a few nights ago. And they looked awfully cozy for two people who were considering divorce." 
> 
> And everything finally started to become clear to Jim Ellison.
> 
> **EPILOGUE:**
> 
> The case unravelled swiftly after that.
> 
> A reveiw of Angela McBerry's bank statements revealed several very large donations to Hughe's SeaBreeze Foundation, including several dated before her death but deposited afterwards. At the same time, hospital records indicated that Davis was in ER when Scott Wheeler was admitted and actually signed some medication out of the Dangerous Drug cabinet. Missing from the same cabinet were four pills of a highly unstable compound used (diluted 1:100) to slow an erratic heartbeat--the same drug, that, full-strength, had killed Wheeler. 
> 
> It wasn't enough for an arrest warrant, but it was more than enough to invite Dr. Davis into the precinct for a little chat. He answered the first few questions easily enough, and then Jim looked him directly in the eyes and said, "We know you killed Angela McBerry to cover up the money you were siphoning from her estate to your SeaBreeze foundation."
> 
> The big man collapsed like a pricked balloon. He simply caved in. He started talking and didn't stop even when his attorney belatedly arrived. And, seven hours later when he finally shut up, the Cascade Major Crimes unit had more than enough evidence to arrest him, as well as his wife, for the murders of Angela and Marc McBerry, Cami Hughes, Jasmine Ronaya and Scott Wheeler. Five people who, no matter what else they had been or done, had died because Carey Davis dreamed of his own private hospital for children. 
> 
> *** *** ***
> 
> "But I don't get it?" Blair asked. "Why did Claire go to work for Enchanted Evening Escorts? Were they trying to frame them?" 
> 
> It was over a week since Blair's fall. Kept flat, still, and sedated for much of that time, he had missed most of the denouement and was trying to make up for lost time. 
> 
> "Actually, Claire and Davis didn't even know that Angela McBerry occasionally used Enchanted Evening," Jim replied, leaning back in the chair next to the bed. Simon Banks and his son Darryl stood near the window, which was still shrouded in deference to Blair's headaches and recurring dizzy spells. Cynthia and Judith Elliott were there, too, having dropped in for a visit with a basket of culinary delights. Already, Simon and Darryl were munching their way through fudge with sun-dried cherries, tiny little pastries, and an assortment of cheeses. 
> 
> "How do you feel, Chief?" It was Blair's first day off all the sedatives.
> 
> The graduate student waved his hand easily, although he was careful not to move his head, Jim noted. "Confused. I mean, I know you told me some of this before, but those drugs had me so messed up--start at the beginning!" 
> 
> Jim obliged. "It was actually a double-barreled attack, and, I think, there was some revenge in there too. See, after the City Planners turned Davis down, he went to BSAF in Seattle and--" 
> 
> Darryl interrupted, "What's BSAF?"
> 
> "It stands for Bolt-Stemple Allied Foundations," Blair answered him. "There are like a hundred charitable foundations that are somehow linked to the Bolt family or the Bolt-Stemple Corporation... BASF kind of coordinates what they all do. They give a lot of money to Rainier." 
> 
> "Yes, but they turned down Davis. For much the same reasons the City Planners did. Which infuriated him. So he sent his wife in, for the purpose of finding out something he could use as leverage with BASF. After all, Judith Elliott is a Bolt by marriage, and he figured that the family was not too thrilled with her business anyway, and if they could find out something unsavory, the family might re-think about donating to SeaBreeze, to avoid a scandal." 
> 
> Judith Elliott laughed, for the first time since Jim had met her, an honestly amused laugh. "Dr. Davis doesn't know my in-laws very well! I don't think there's been a Bolt or a Stemple blackmailed since Aaron Stemple and Jason Bolt stopped fighting over who owned what and started working together." 
> 
> "No, but he's such a snob himself it never occurred to him that the family wouldn't be ashamed of you," Jim said. "Besides, it gave verisimilitude to the idea that Carey and Claire Davis were separated, maybe divorcing. That helped him a lot when soliciting donations.... Angela McBerry isn't the only one he conned, although she does seem to be the only one he ever killed. Originally he planned to finagle himself in as her heir, but she was pretty stubborn about not disinheriting Marc, so Davis settled for conning her out of a lot and stealing a lot more. But she found out, checks coming in that had extra digits where she hadn't put them. Davis thought he could talk her out of bringing charges, but all he managed to do was to obtain her promise that she wouldn't go to the police for twenty-four hours. That afternoon, when she left for her normal walk around the river, he followed her and--" Jim let his voice trail off.
> 
> "Marc McBerry may have suspected Davis, but he was more suspicious of the escort agency. Plus, Davis knew--probably because Angela McBerry had told him--that several years ago Marc got caught passing bad checks. Sooner or later the police would find out about that. I bet Davis even worked him up with stories about how the police would convict him on his record. Then Claire Davis sabotaged Marc's car, and that was the end of him. 
> 
> "Meanwhile, Claire had discovered Scott Wheeler's blackmail scheme and had cut herself into it. Jasmine was a front, she loved Scott so she cashed the checks he gave her though her account, which he had full access to." 
> 
> "Scott?" Judith explained. "But how did Scott find out--?"
> 
> "Scott Wheeler said he wanted to be a writer, but actually, he already was: under a dozen different pen names he wrote for two or three of those supermarket tabloids. He probably meant to publish the story about Bish, but then, realizing how much you cared about him, decided on a spot of blackmail instead. Claire flattered him, telling him with her society connections and his information gathering skills, they could have a great partnership. In actuality, of course, she was using him. But then, one day Cami Hughes came to the house and Claire panicked. She knew that if Cami created too much of a scene, the police might start looking a little more closely at other people who could have killed Angela McBerry. So Cami had to be silenced." Jim gripped Blair's shoulder reassuringly.
> 
> "But why kill Jasmine?" Cynthia asked. "If she was in on it with them--"
> 
> "She really wasn't. Jasmine just loved Scott and did whatever he told her. But she didn't like Claire and she was getting jealous, too, of the hold Claire had over Scott." Jim paused. "Claire Davis is a cold-hearted bitch," he added quietly. "As far as she was concerned, both Jasmine and Scott were expendable. She's not talking, but from what her husband says, Claire pretended to leave for her assignment that night. In reality, she sneaked back up to the third floor and waited for Jasmine to come up. Then she knocked her out and locked her in the closet, drugged Sandburg's dessert and her own, too; and sneaked back out of the house, made an appearance at the reception, then met her husband in a nearby restaurant. The two of them had a very public reunion, then checked into a suite at the Palace Hotel, ordering champagne and leaving orders not to be disturbed. Then, of course, they sneaked back to the house, killed Jasmine, and sneaked back to the hotel, all ready to be in bed together when they called for room service early in the morning. 
> 
> "But when Scott realized Jasmine had been murdered, he got scared. He had been putting the lion's share of the blackmail money in Jasmine's account; he decided to grab the money and leave town. Unfortunately, Chief, you walked in as he was grabbing the bank records. So he had to get rid of you, and in such a way that you probably wouldn't be found for awhile and that it conceivably be considered an accident. By the way, Ms. Elliott, you might want to get a builder in to look at your house; the place is honeycombed with secret passages and boarded-up doors."
> 
> Judith smiled. "I'll make sure the new owners know to do that."
> 
> "You're selling?" Blair asked. 
> 
> "More than that... I'm closing down the escort service. Cyn and Bish and I are going back to Seattle. Corinna Bolt has offered me a position in Bolt-Stemple--in Public Relations, and I've accepted." She paused. "I told Bish the truth, you know. It's funny, all these years I've been so afraid he wouldn't understand, and he understood better than I ever did. He's known all along I was his mother. So I told Corinna, told her there was no way I was going to deny him again, and it doesn't bother her! On the contrary, she says she's thrilled to have another 'grandchild'."
> 
> "But what about Cynthia?" Blair asked.
> 
> Judith threw a fond glance at her sister. "Well, that's part of the deal. One of my husband's nieces--Debrah--got her degree in Food Service and Hotel Management from Cornell. She just finished a year with one of the top catering firms in New York, and she wants to come home and start her own company. She remembered Cynthia from when she used to visit me when she was younger; her parents think Cyn would be just the person for a partner, so--" she shrugged. 
> 
> "Well, if nothing else I figure we'll have a built-in clientele," Cynthia said dryly. "I mean, if you add up all the Bolts and Stemples, and their weddings and parties and their businesses, we should have enough to keep us busy three hundred days of the year." In spite of her tone, her face glowed with happiness 
> 
> ** *** ***
> 
> All the visitors left shortly afterwards. Jim turned from seeing the last one out and went directly to the bed. "Okay, Chief, you've sat up long enough--time to lay back now. You don't want another headache."
> 
> "Yes, Mother." Blair sighed as his friend helped him ease down with his head on the pillow. "This sucks, man, I want to go home!" 
> 
> "I know you do," Jim soothed. "Another day or two, Chief. You'll be back in fighting trim in plenty of time to get ready for school." 
> 
> Blair snorted, closing his eyes against a wave of dizziness and fatigue. Jim tucked the sheet around him, then sat back in the chair where he'd spent so much of the last few days. "Sandburg?" 
> 
> "Hmm?" Blair murmured sleepily.
> 
> "Now that it's all over... do you feel better? About Cami Hughes, I mean? I know the only reason you got involved in this mess in the first place was because of her death." 
> 
> Blair opened his eyes and studied his friend for a long time. "That wasn't the only reason," he said finally. "I don't know... Cami is still dead, and so is Marc McBerry... but at least the Davis's can't kill anyone else." He shifted restlessly. "It's ironic, you know? All those people dead, for a *hospital!* Something that was supposed to help people."
> 
> Jim shook his head. "It wasn't about a hospital, Chief, that was just an excuse. It was about ego. Carey Davis' ego. And all his wife could see was him. No one else mattered to her." 
> 
> "Did you ever figure out what the scent was?" Blair asked, abruptly changing the subject. 
> 
> "Oh, yes. Carey Davis had his cologne specially made up for him by a perfumery in Paris. That was why I couldn't ever match it to anything else," Jim explained. 
> 
> "Oh." After a long silence, Blair sighed. "All's well that ends well, I guess." 
> 
> "You don't really believe that, do you, Chief?" Jim prodded softly.
> 
> Blair lifted a hand to brush suspicious wetness from his eyes. "No," he said faintly. "Five people are still dead, Jim, and there's no bringing them back." 
> 
> Jim nodded. "I know, Chief. We do our jobs... but we can never bring the dead back." He smiled, leaning back in his chair. "All we can do is make things safer for the living." Then, without changing his tone, he went on. Oh, and by the way, Sandburg... the next time you decide to go undercover without telling *me* about it first, I may have your hide!" 
> 
> Blair managed a smile. "That reminds me, I need to get my stuff out of Judith's house." 
> 
> "It's all back in the loft, where it belongs," Jim assured him.
> 
> Blair lifted his head to study his partner's face. "Where it belongs?" he repeated softly. 
> 
> Jim gave a firm nod. "Don't you ever doubt it, kid."
> 
> **The End**
> 
> * * *


End file.
